Once a year I decide
I don't love you. It's
today. Watch me
not make you breakfast.
The child is only
this flesh I grew
and you tore
out of me.
Now it stirs in the crib,
leaking, while I half-
pack you a suitcase
and Facebook-message ex-lovers.
When you come home / I will not be waiting up
but not sleeping / and you will get into bed
and I will look at your arm / sprawled across my chest
and I will bite down / on twelve pounds of muscle and fat
and this meat will feed me
three hundred and sixty four days.