Blood to babe to father’s
laden table. Dance, said
the father, show us your grace.
Whose tattered cotton
whose weary gristle, heads
duly shriven, wrenched
in complaint? Cleft so a heart
works without wanting,
summoned to pleasure,
free to pick dates. Curve
into cursive, praxis to ashes.
What reveler considers
the number of plates?

More Poems by Rodney Koeneke