You Always Demand Rain, But Only Supply Ruin

Feast:

My hunger is no method actor; love,

In the beginning, laid my hunger down

On mossy music. Days unworthy of

Her gaze are days no more. It all had grown

Around her: every step a grape, to drown

In wine that went with every kind of food;

Compared to non-existence, it was good.



Milk, honey, coffee, spices; all was in

Her custody. I saw, in living bronze,

The Dying Gaul stand up. If fall was in

The air, it failed. “She breathes, the moon responds,”

I noted; moonlight tasted of pecans

Back then. My health was none of love’s concern.

She taught a lesson no one wants to learn.


Famine:

The snow is too loud for my eyes, too hot

For hearts today. Her final breath was strange,

Was sweetly strange: (I wish that tongues forgot);

You’d swear that Doctor Lister kissed her. Change

Gets paid in salt, and that’s too bad: this range

Of possibilities is doggerel;

My memory spits it out, and says, “I’m full.”


These candles make the coldness only seem

Forgotten. Wisdom stands by Terminus

To worship God, while hunger forms a team

With The Night Watch. Imagine nothing is,

Then look again, and nothing doesn’t blaze!

A fork! A fork! My birthright just to spoon!

Let Typhoid Mary undercook the moon.


Feast:

Tomorrow love will feed the ocean; rain

And tears and nations always fall. The time

Will serve me empathy before a grain

Of self-awareness grows. Love’s paradigm

Will split in half to be my lemon-lime

Refreshment. She will slice what’s never old,

Turn every nugget in distress to gold.


Love’s light will still be very vertical.

Starvation is her lifeblood; I will fast

Until what’s never too available –

Her last forbidden fact – is my repast.

She’ll decorate the sky and flabbergast

The moon with darkling globes. Trifoliate

And pure, her rhythms will be trees of light.