For A. B.
An ant devours a larva, in accord
with nature, and a child then eats the ant —
it burns on the tongue. Curiosity
always burns. On Paradise Beach in Goa,
a shark will eat the child, but when God sees,
he'll catch the shark, just as he grabs a rat,
a tigress, elephant. The poet in his room
will then eat God. He'll feed on everything.
He is a monster like a boar that bloats,
excretes. He feeds on paper. If you let
him in, he'll find your dreams, love's traces on
the sheets — he'll steal what's holy, masticate,
grow pasty flesh, poisonous fur. It's enough
to touch him or brush by on accident.
|From The Literary Review (Fall, 2008). Copyright © 2008 by Mira Rosenthal. Used by permission.|