In the cocoa darkness of three a.m.
you reach out to her. And this is guilt:
the sacrifice and dream-weariness
tied around your hands and pulled
out of the spaces in her body.
Convince yourself of your need, that you
are gifts to one another:
bitter adrenaline of sweet midnight fuel.
Because you were hungry, she comes alive.
In this way the mouth begs for a reply:
unorthodox miracle, creation, prayer.
There is no more bread to break.
Nobody is innocent. Save the washing of hands
for after: you were fully and gloriously
complicit. She died so you could sin.
Remember her taste knotted around your tongue.