A deadly thing to hold
Creation in a crucible of flesh.
It burns, cramps. Its greatest touches,
Softest kisses poison to the blood
And we never stop prying those Jaws wider, going
Deeper into life’s hot, white howling
Until we forget the way back,
That there is any way back,
And that we could ever want
To know a way back.

Our children cry to nothing,
Clutch empty hands. Them!
They know nothing of hunger
Its needs, its visions.
They only cling to the outside rind
And shake it, examine our wrinkles
And our words. They laugh
Behind their hands thinking
They will be the ones to find a handle,
They will twist the snake, make him do tricks.
When they are the best of us
And the best of us
Was never enough.