Chapter 1
I bite at the silver spoon that feeds me.
My teeth ache and crack-split at the joining
Of precious metal against yellowed bone.
It is cold, searing my tongue with a fine-frosted-crust.
I gnash my teeth at the silver spoon that gives me life.
No matter if the kids are all shivering, no matter
If they have no shoes, no more trash to play with
On the bulldozed soccer field. That is not my fault.
My Church needs more crackers, more wine.
It needs more gold coins, more brass wire to ensnare
The critters and creatures that collect to come and
Trap me. Where is the spoon, again? I need it.
I am still hungry, I protest. No that is not enough!
I should be so lucky, the spoon says, as it hovers
Above my gray eyes, that I am getting food,
Pre-chewed. I bite, until the spoon is gross-rusted
With spit. It no longer has a voice, but I know
It would say, “Well, look at you, sir, your kings
Have all left you, the ring on your pinky is staining
The skin like grass, and Jesus, pinned up on the wall,
Has fallen down like a cripple. Well, look at you.
With mold-hair, with a mouth full of teeth-pulp.
LOOK AT YOU! It no longer has a voice, but I know
My mother would say, “If only you would’ve listened
More to Ethel Cain, and not so much your Pope,
You would be better off. You would’ve been better off.
