Fall 2021 Inklings

Before the sun bleaches my bones they will have forgotten me
When their messiah swings low
what then?
Silly little skeleton thought they could climb
thought she was
more than
a piece of nothing
There is a hall not far from here where I
spat out my oatmeal and brewed my tea until I could
not taste the leaves
(I have
always poured too much cream)
It will not fit
the cupping of my hands
the industrial-strength sink
Spills into
where a
curry encrusted pot lies in wait
Too much sugar
to serve
Ingredients in towering stacks of cubes
Perhaps that circling bird is for me
come to peck out my
liver
called by the gods to sanctify my body
Perhaps I shall hold my tongue and be burned
(away)
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