lamp post supper

i get the curved knife. the one you
sharpened on your teeth. we talk about
what we're going to eat in the end times.
i offer up a mirror. the taste of fingernails.
you look to the street lamps. lick your lips.
of the two of us, i am always the least prepared.
i don't want to think about
how we're going to survive when 
the machine we're on finally reaches
its logical conclusions. the fields full
of vacant houses. all day showing.
there is a new craze of selling your lungs
so that you can have a door. i cut into
the light. pull downward, making strips.
remember the summer where we tried
to make our own pasta. we didn't have
a roller or anything fancy. we just had our fingers
& the kitchen counter bathed in light.
yolks pressed into dough. the noodles
were always thick. i hope that there is 
enough sauce in the cupboard to make
the lamp posts worthwhile. i suggest
inviting the neighbors but you say,
"we have to take care of ourselves." the neighbors 
are busy preening their lawn. they bleed
into the lawn. they bring the lawn
offerings in the hopes that it will stay
lush & weedless. they rent the lawn out
to birds who are down on their luck.
if you close your eyes you can make just about
anything in your mouth taste good. 
i chew the boiled lamp post. outside
the lamp posts have learned they are next
& so many have started to migrate. 
why is relief always like this? a breath in the dark.
then, the hunt. bare hands. a wide & restless sky. 
in the closet i have one spoon left uneaten. 
at first i lied to myself. i said i was saving it
for you but instead i think i might lose control.
cold & bright. i might feast. stomach burning
from the street lamp's final song.