It is rare that I
have to stop eating anything
because I have run out of it.
We, in the West, eat until we want
to eat something else,
or want to stop eating altogether.
The chef of a great kitchen
uses only small plates.
He puts a small plate in front of me,
knowing I will hunger on for it
even as the next plate is being
placed in front of me.
But each plate obliterates the last
until I no longer mourn the destroyed plate,
but only mewl for the next,
my voice flat with comfort and faith.
And the chef is God,
whose faithful want only the destruction
of His prior miracles to make way
for new ones.
From The Final Voicemails. Copyright © 2018 by Max Ritvo. Used with the permission of Milkweed Editions.