| Reanimator
In the Purity Supreme last night
you were the vanished hand:
the cause of all the symptoms in the packaging, all
the rigorous joy.
Yum, the taste of home—
its spike and its dissolve—
a piece of diaspora
like a cry on the tip of my tongue
where the smell or sweetness should lie.
Why should I buy
this transparent flavor,
rife in the supermarket? I was looking for something
secret, something
original: a heat flush, rising
through the disunited chickens, canned
serpent in the unclean
foods of foreign lands. Eat
and Clean are such bitter commands
for the ribless Adam, standing on the graves
of his mother and father,
setting his face toward Eden again.
Mother. And Father.
You are locked inside the vaults
of ceiling in the Purity Supreme,
behind the security mirrors.
If I say it feels like church,
it's only this feeling of beating my fists
against the stone floor in the heavenly ground.
Birds
and flower extracted
therein; such bodies inside I would raise.
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