As I sweep the kitchen floor and

brew his coffee –

Half a sugar and a dash of milk –

perfectly cooled for him to drink.

 

As I clear last night’s mess and

tidy shattered plates,

pick out mouldy fruit, leaving

only good – only the best – for him.

 

As I cook his toast and my tongue –

lightly salted with tears –

and quail eggs to serve under caviar.

Silence, to him, is golden.

 

As I chew up his breakfast, each mouthful then

Spit, arrange in bowls moulded from my leathered breasts.

It’s easy on the eye,

easier for him to swallow.

 

As I peel off my skin and stitch it to my clothes

to make bedding and curtains,

to make pillows and cushions.

His comfort, my bitter, stinging cold.

 

As I draw him a bath,

crochet a loofah from my hair,

make soap from my flesh.

The gentlest wash for his skin.

 

As my sharpened femur slits my wrists,

And I bleed, drowning in my river of blood,

leaving him his life of luxury.

My death is his abundance, his sustenance.

I give you my food, my body, my air–