by Sara Clancy

The bone that you used all winter
to pick the poison from your teeth
is mine and if you still crave that malice
you may find it in the iron caldron

of your appetite along with your own
empty ribs. You can season my bitter
epiphany by chanting our common
name to the host of this banquet

of forgery. Pray that your incantation
will not separate shared blood
from the meat of your famished intent.
In the name of your father. Amen.

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