leftovers 

my meatloaf parts are always urgent.
tell me tomorrow will have grease
& a good sturdy kitchen table
covered with hands. i sever mine
while chopping up a holy day.
the slime of sacrifice & swarm.
standing in the glorious fridge light
& waiting for an angel to make 
a proper fortune of me. this does not come.
instead, a frog falls from the ceiling 
& demands us to eat his legs.
there is food that begs to wait
& food that begs to be devoured
on the spot. the tupperware 
are lidless & cruel. we search all night
for a red survivor. i tell you
in a pickle limbo that i am tired
of being stupid. aren't we all though?
it is important to be sad & selfish 
at least once a week. if not, what
will the poems be for? who will
the priest think about before
he microwaves his hungry man?
there is a miracle of loaves & fishes
inside my tuesday. i return to your face
& find it stacked high with plates.
then, mine too. the eldest daughter
cooks for everyone. when she does 
we come to eat her. don't get me wrong
i am not an eldest daughter. i am not
an eldest anything. i am the woven face
of a grocery store pie you ate standing up.
don't worry. i have more. 
the forks are decapitated by a thought
of permanence. i try to put their heads
back on but they are no more.
utensil graveyard. you put ketchup
on everything even my hand. 
i ask you how it tastes but 
you can't hear me over the dishwasher
gnawing on bones.