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.