jesus won’t look at me during dinner

& this is what we mean when we say body count. first, a swaddling. then, betwixt damp & ordinary gums hangs a mess hall. we offer a martyr to the blowtorch’s bright kelvin spit and call it supper. an autopsy worth its salt. the dust collects on everything we pretend to own. even each other. maybe i reveled in it. the stinging scent of meat past its prime. numbing to the life of a past pelt, it’s writhing and last giggle trapped between the gaps in my teeth. i lick the plate clean. i pick my teeth with the shards of His glasses. and what of it. i think i like arguing with God, I can always think of something clever to say later. Open-mouthed sud-less, I have no need for the suckling nature of water. I spit on your thumb and that is how you stop a child from teething. I think I am addicted to this salt. Wax paper, gurney, if you don’t keep an eye on your meal it will putrefy. Deli string, bed sheets, whatever will keep it from turning. Hunger has a pulse. I suppose some other scavenger will salvage what’s left of the kill, but, my love, I do not trust your sentiment. A day begins with another meal to be had. The base of your heel is all many of us know of the sky. I want to seem gentle, so i laundered you whole, i ate you divine, three decades and a treble, i left the bones beautiful.