Pilgrimage

When you break the bread
- or it breaks itself,
splitting like stones in the sun,
overfilling, erupting,
core pouring, out spilling,
wrecking the calm surface,
upsetting the tray or shelf,
you make a good break,
a happy tragedy.
It is rendered new,
miraculous
and cannot be unmade,
un-baked, re-doughed.

My mind is the same,
a constant schism,
out out damn spot, damn speck,
damn seed,
out blood, out brains,
out guts, out greed.

You come from me like mould
or maggots, the tubor
reek of Keats' fruit,
swolen, heavy,
pregnant.
You come from me like mushrooms,
Little steadfast atomic clouds
Nightly exploding themselves
making pleasure havoc
casting pearly spells.

Throwing Up

I fell asleep in your lap, in your hands, on your knee.
You folded me like paper, like napkins, like cutlery.
You wiped me down on bread, lifted me to your lips,
Then placed me back carefully
As if to say,
Thank-you.
As if to say,
I’m done.