Feasting on crumbles,
Feasting on crumbles and other
somber things.
So long as my appetite is appeased
for a moment,
A sorry moment,
A moment nonetheless.
I shall sit here, under this table,
My mind too bothered with a better circumstance,
Preoccupied with wishes for light, romance
and other fleeting joys,
But I shall just sit here,
Receiving nothing but the darkness
of this moment.
I shall sit here under this table,
Being my own judge and moral pundit.
Condemning my lack,
And convicting myself to a horrendous
disintegration.
And yet I shall sit here,
Receiving crumbs of this meal,
Enjoying the sorries and
Cavalier regrets of unfinished food.
Thinking against my convictions.
And believing in my worthiness to
this table- its food, - its grace and the relief it promises.
I will wait sometimes, with tears
and stray attention,
Distracted by the sounding cracks of
my end,
Eating of this food, with constrained
expectation.
I will be the skeptic, the hypocrite,
the slanderer, the self- righteous, and the unbecoming church girl.
I shall sit here,
Being finished by the rottenness of
my soul,
Embracing the inherent guilt of Eve.
Eating these crumbs,
Eating from my limited understanding
of this grace,
And slowly assuming a seat at this
table…
