Prayer for Appetite

What whispers suckle, tugs

spines upright, name god.

Acolytes—mice sniffing

a wet breeze, blouse milksoaked

at an infant's cry,

universe ever expanding.

Oh cosmic through line,

teach the weaker sex your

bruising grip. May we find

statements heavy as stones

in throats, stay hands that

push away plates, backs

arched only to provoke

a conclusion. Instead, let

what's clenched uncoil,

pulse under the tongue.

At dawn, we'll rise to tuck

ribs into the smoker's belly.