They call me weak
eyes, don’t expect
passion or a man
to call me Beautiful.

Dad sold me the way
shops sell overstock,
discount cans that sit
on the shelves too long.

But when I bear my son,
I will know my salvation.
When I feed you my breasts,
maybe your hunger will
resolve and you will eat
me, only—

I bore the veil like a hot
iron, spread my legs in
duty. Your heaviness caved
into my bones. In my mouth,
the fulfillment of your inmost
being. You moan, desiring Rachel—

Break and enter my body.
I will paint my offerings over
my tits and you will bite. I
will lay like an invalid, prepared
to milk your needs. And I will
feed. And I will be fed.

Contributor’s Notes: Meg Eden’s work has been published in various magazines, been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and received the 2012 Henrietta Spiegel Creative Writing Award. She was a reader for the Delmarva Review. Her collections include “Your Son” (The Florence Kahn Memorial Award) and “Rotary Phones and Facebook” (Dancing Girl Press). She teaches at the University of Maryland. Check out her work at: http://artemisagain.wordpress.com/