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My love. I’d eat a man for you. I’d eat
a kingdom of men & I mean this literally,
as in, I’d use my teeth to grind the worst
parts down: the spying eyes & marching feet,
the axe-hands & trigger-fingers. If we
are what we eat, I am a small thing with leaves.
Pre-bows-&-arrows. Kindling-to-be. Better,
then, to be a man whose stomach inherits
what it stomachs. A ditch full of everything
careless enough to fall in, though never
so full it can’t take more. For you, love,
the world. The world on a bone-white platter.
There is no use in planting trees tonight.
Better to be a man & sleep—when morning
comes, make a whetstone of it. Sharpen the knife
of me & carve us a meal, something
so fresh & warm it still wants to kill us.