last

I

was the last thing you ate.

Figuratively,

Not physically

Because never were you close enough
to ever really wrap your mouth
around me.

But still,
despite distance
You devoured me.

Feathers plucked,
Skin boiled,
Body carved

You presented me
On a white platter.

In your presence
I become edible.
Consumable—
Digestible.

 In your presence:

I am the flesh made meat
That becomes sustenance
But not satiation.

The beating heart
That becomes real,
But only in your throat now raw from hunger

The sinking substance

That settles
But only in the morose cavern
Of your stomach, now full—

full, but not pacified
full, but not appeased
full, but not subdued

 because I was the last thing you ate.