I wake to the dawn of man’s last day
and I will set his last meal before him.
Cornbread, potato salad, two whole, fried birds,
the skin still blistering from the bubbling lard.
A maître d’ dressed as a prison guard I’ll watch
his teeth tear flesh from the breastbone.

Then I’ll bring the preacher man to say
grace, a few words about forgiveness, hear
him read the book about plagues and first-born
killings to a man who buried his father’s
hunting knife clean to the hilt into
the abdomen of a pregnant woman.

Near midnight the family will gather ‘round
the table and marvel at the lovely spread.
They’ll watch me strap him down
as the doctor fixes him up with tubes.

Chemicals will flow and his eyes will
drift down like torsos in the riverbed.
It’ll be ceremonious and we will
find grace in the stopping
of a heart as he shits all over himself.

Blood that’s spilled blood is spilled
fair and just like Sunday supper unraveled.