When He Says He Would Prefer a Son

fold the warm red girl 
like silk, careful not to snap 
her new bones    go tender 
in your unmaking    sparrowchild, 
brittle as wheat stalk
wrap her over and over
into herself, like kneading,
like blood bread
slowly take the wadded girl 
back inside    pry the womb, 
push    gentle, deep 
as the wrist, the elbow
deeper    until her limbs unbolt 
your ribs, persuade liver 
from spleen, up 
until she swells the throat
undo her then
each porous bone, each
gristly muscle    reverse her
cell by cell, atom from atom
erase    absorb her into the filth 
of your own unfortunate body