Like the monster of legend,
I feast and still I hunger—
Nothing fills the hollow place
at the core of my being.  I drift
in  a cloud of cinnamon and garlic
and the scent that rises from my skin
reminds me of roast meat,
flesh splitting and juices running
down my chin as I take great mouthfuls . . .
I recall slick bodies, hands
clenched, faces tight with passion
and need.  I crave connection,
dissolution, and the mingling of breath . . .
And at the last, I hear bells
calling across the sky, and the rustle
of wings, and incense fogs my sight.
Hidden from God’s eye, I cradle
death in my bent fingers
and caress the gilt and gems adorning it . . .
But it is only a dream,
and satiety fades to leave
the urgent itch of need.
Who am I to be filled?
I swallow the past and it sits
like a stone in my belly;
I taste the future, and it
roils on my tongue,
leaving the acrid taste of death.