Dinner with the Priest
The grapes divide and conquer the blood stream,
the mac and cheese gums the teeth and
gums the stomach sack.
The baby throne tries to nail itself to linoleum
under the tiny emperor's temper.
The wife, the priestess, works grave
hours by the bell, so it is he, priest,
and we, husband and wife,
Christ and the church in deep love,
him shepherd and we married sheep,
here for the baby
is of course as lost as a little lamb
can see, and it is for that we feel
at such a great loss,
lost minds thinking about house and bed.
It is because cornstarch
is the ancestor of our bones
pat-a-caked with the living waters,
waters the lamb knows so wetly,
that we liquefy when still,
ossify and set with pressure,
why at dinner dust scrapes
from our elbows onto the table cloth
and at night our insides wash around our skin
till all the folds in the bedsheet are filled
and we can’t get out of bed in the morning until we beat
our knees on the floor, our wrists against our chins.
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