It’s the feeling not the words that gice it away
every time you’re here in my house
eating my food drinking my drink
I watch everything that passes your lips
and imagine the taste
every time you swallow
and I think suicide
us that what you’re after
the way you tear at your meat
and swill your wine
I can’t think you’re after anything less
than what you came here after
a piece of meat and the feeling
of warm blood on your tongue
after giving a second thought to the infection
that lay in wait inside the pyramids
where your ancestors were laid to rest
where once inside you may have no choice
which way the wind is going to blow
from where you came from or
where you’re going to go
and before you have time to make up your mind
you’re right where you’re supposed to be right about now
as your bare neck catches my eye.
