This word comes to dinner every summer
when time is uninhabited, the moon full



one sits at the table with one’s native tongue
gods would die for this, exist a little



this meal is a funeral feast, broken cups
bones and left-overs, uneatable cutlery



one scoops it up to stay alive, keep the tomato red
turn bread to meat, to squeeze the unsayable,



choking on itself and trying to starve, into
the darkness between two marks of punctuation