snacking on the dead

snacking on the dead

my mother died 9 days before I was born,
hospital records indicate she held me in with the sheer force of will
for 45 days after her due date,
being selfish and self-centered,
unwilling to give up anything she felt might eventually turn a profit

I was told the birth was difficult,
or rather her passing was,
leaving behind no ritual memories from Hallmark
or hope of heaven’s reclamation
(after a hearty nosh on a salted mommies soul)
only sheets stained with shit and blood and piss
in Polloch’s later period style,

an outline made of mute, wetted crucifixes
where the aforementioned body once labored,
and me with a spent uterine pacifier,
an obsession for minced meat pies
and spiritual tartare-
eaten with a raw egg yolk on easter
and capers and onions on christmas