For the sweet drink of gods that tints my
lips with grape and that
spirits to the sky
like the bird I did not eat and
For the red beast and pink
succulent shellfish that I did.
For the white meat beneath
brown flesh and earth that I
peeled and rinsed from it
and then pounded by hand
to a buttery pulp
and creamed and
For the gold that comes as a gift from the ground
wrapped in green textured papers.
For the night and
the one two before with all its
pressing himself against me and
religion not tying me down
For all its pursuit of pleasure.
For the feast it seemed would not exist, but did and
For the warmth and abundance that exists
even in its absence.