UTENSILS i am the plott hound of hell and hunger and want which tumbles and folds, folds and never cleans all my folly splayed on a riddled plate portioned-- as if to measure thing with thing picking my teeth with a fork, i pray this weakness i suckle on no sin i am a sickly pale-pink from whence comes my pardon, covered in soot twisting knuckles, hands you become void as I beg for absolution and choke like swallowing teeth all those moments we gave breath we orphaned-- to the cavernous dark, the wild gorging our children whole redeemed and then-- vapor without even my fill you are abysm i survey your delicious throat and i guzzle you with my straw-- never sated
"Utensils," K.E.B.













