Each of them eats the flesh of his own arm

It tastes like chicken
but the tendons tend
to stick in the teeth.

We got hooked
after just a few bites.
Our churches are full

of those who’ve had their fill.
It’s a wonder
there are any arms left

to lift in praise
or elbows to guide
a bride down the aisle.

It’s hard to shake
the taste of blood
once you’ve consumed

the marrow—our legs
don’t have a long
future.

But maybe
there’s a different meat
to meet our hunger, to satiate

our innate fears, for God
hasn’t disappeared, his hand
is still stretched out.

Published by asaur