Pounds and pounds of pounds

A pot roast exhales its sallow vapors.
Women in rags they wash and care for
like the children they forsook cook
the air hot, the air yellow in fat.
Their famished husbands root and stalk
wells of banyan hunger, and walk
through deepening bodies their own
and not, and neither the world’s
to play upon or to purchase.
A night of trampled leaves left dark:
while blisters are washed to starve
while stomachs churn in want
they have excess, have mandibles
only gods could close if they were handed.
The pot roast is done, is shrunk
knowing their countenance and it shrieks
every time they plunge a fork into its meat.

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~ by Jeremy on January 18, 2011.

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