She's huge, hips ripe
as a hung plum, but
elegant all the same in silk,
long-limbed & agile with
a luster like rubbed
black lacquer.  Even
in awe of this beauty,
I kill her,
giving the reason
I always give -- for
my children, though in truth,
they're grown and scattered,
my daughters' wedding dresses
mummified and sent away,
the garage nearly empty as I
pound the red hours
on her abdomen
with a stick.

First Published in MARGIE:The American Journal of Poetry