I ate crackers for dinner

When I chew the muscles
of cooked pigs
I imagine them in locked cages
chewing the grub
to please the hunger
they only knew,
their lives cold,

meaningless,

senseless,

as the sterile blade that
lashes their throats.

Perhaps in this hunger
I cannot please
a cracker will do well
for the pigs–
wheat grown
from the solemn soil
and salt filtered
from the shallow sea.

With this dinner

I offer my repentance
to the world that used
to serve my stomach
and wait until
my pockets give
me the luxury
of turning my eye
from its pleas.


Poem No. 4 for this week’s poetry theme, “on summer I toil, on summer, I dream.”

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