If I were the compassionless sort
without regard for flowing sanctity,
and if hunger more dire than thirst
rocked through me with stings true,
I would think of babies as morsels
of puffy flesh more succulent than
the sinewy knots riddled with tendons
once formed as joints since adults
bend knees with ardor too vast
to grasp pure honesty.
When snacking upon that treasure
trove of future’s calling, I laugh at
the clamor of rattles and chimes
since baby chops prove delicate
bits, stippled with rivulets of soft
fat yet to be flexed in purpose or
pleasure, and children blinded by
innocence never see the devil in
my blood-streaked eyes or the
cherub on my shoulder.
Once sated by my feast of infants,
my hollow chest will rumble loud
till my questing once more lumbers
to pastel quarters of babbling coos.
I shall round up more tinkering grubs
still swaddle-bound by fabric most
cloying, inviting my navy blood to
boil with pathogens unleashed by
centuries of lust, greed and avarice
until prospect staggers lost.