for T.B.

The first lunar shadow eclipses the bed.
Slipping out, she seeks yellow light,
the buzz of dust frying on the bulb.

It is animal she smells, she tracks:
red-brown, still humming,
moist flesh caught in cold storage.

There is bread to fill the hole,
Pepsi to burn, mayonnaise to soothe.
There is ham and chicken, cheese and butter.
There are eggs and oranges to hold fast.

Jelly paints the cabinet.
The flash of a knife, the succor of cereal milk.
Sugar exfoliates, lemon expiates,
peanut butter purges.

Seven plates shatter. The cloth is rent.
The drain gurgles and spits bone.

She steps around a single clean, whole wineglass,
slippers red and scraping the tile.

She wakes up in the full white mystery,
eyes wide, fingers sticky,
empty, filthy, smelling of the last supper.