More marrow to suck, more elegies
to whistle through the digestive tract. So help
me God to another dollop of death,
come on strong with the gravy and black-eyed peas,
slop it all in the grand, transcendent stew
whose vapors rise and shine in the nostrils of heaven.
Distill the belches, preserve the drool as ink:
Death, since you nourish me, I’ll flatter you
inordinately. Consumers both, with claws
cocked and molars prompt at the fresh-dug grave,
reaper and elegist, we collaborate
and batten in this strictest of intimacies,
my throat an open sepulchre, my tongue
forever groping grief forever young.
—Rosanna Warren