The Rhetoric of Cannibals

Baby, come closer.

I will not resent you
for not having enough hands to satisfy me.

I know that if I asked, you would give me
recommendations for dentists, for surgeons,

for people who take delight in removing
body parts from the completeness of their families
and calling them extraneous.

People who unsocket, then shove plastic
splints in the spaces left behind. These people
cannot be trusted.

Trust them for me. Trust them
to grow you new arms, new legs.

Now let us speak again of references,

            and more to the point – do you know a good cannibal?

I need to get rid of some leftovers.

The removal from sight
would allow me to ignore

this hunger that shrinks
my stomach. Bloats my vestigia.

This thought is nothing but
one of those myths, like
                  ‘everyone looks better

                  in direct sunlight.’

And so I make my mouth a cavern, a place for you to hide,
to sit while you pluck up your courage and sew yourself together again.

            I watch you light your cigarette
            and deem the embers your eyes.

Please remember that when you gaze off into the setting sun
and look longingly into the distance that the things you are seeing
are mostly skin flakes. Do not sit and wonder what you are.

What you are is what I have already discarded. What you are is leftovers.