she cries in the middle of the night
i pretend not to listen
i'd rather sleep
i'm not a mother
i'm selfish and incoherent
in my dreams i never had this
in my dreams i don't hear a child
in my dreams i don't have to get up

and breastfeed


i'm a mother who doesn't care
i warned him
if we weren't careful this would happen
he didn't believe me
said that,
"all women have a motherly instinct,
i'm sure it's there in you, somewhere"
i ran to the bathroom to puke
not sure if it was your answer
or if it was the baby


now i hear the baby
and you try to shake me awake
like you expect me to be the one to rise
i crawl deeper


pulling the covers roughly over my head
"no," i hoarsely choke out,
"let her cry for all i care"


i feel you tense
your hand pulls away quickly
"how could you..."
you pause for a minute
i feel an argument coming
so i stop it short
"i warned you, didn't i?"
although it's not a question

and i hear your lip quivering as you say,
"she loves you and needs you, can't you spare some remorse"
you never were much of a man
and i was never much of a woman