The proper way to eat an apology
spat out by a man who choked
on the words is with both hands

 

outstretched; greedily press crumbs
to mouth, suck the marrow, try to make
meaning from his lint and dust.

 

The proper way to drink derision is one
drop at a time, burning the edges
of cracked lips, its sea salt a false

 

promise amid the scorched absence

 

of freshwater. I have made bad decisions,
but just because I’m subsisting
on scraps doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten

 

the feel of feast on my tongue. Somewhere,
there is a house of milk and honey,
the soothing sacrament for the lost

 

and hungry. I imagine the buttery
taste of safety as I press my fingers,
dusted with his unseasoned temper

 

to my mouth, desperate to fill myself.