the thought of puking bile
covered chunks of expertise
in my children's
hungry mouths
motivates me
opening their doors
in the evening
with all i've gathered
throughout the day
wriggling
in my throat
"hello son,
hungry?
have some
cunning stew
daughter,
here's some gooey-soft
pornographic
porridge"
my eldest
hunched
over the kitchen
table gobbling
a can of
thick and hearty
and after awhile
the pace would quicken
and every thirty seconds
they could fill
a bowl
with their loving
father's fertile
mind
first
they must learn
to come and get it
out his mouth
his jaws
normally
ripping the heads
off worms
slack
in that
they could die
falling out of the nest
picked up by a kind
teacher
or possibly a priest
picturing
each of my children
huddled in a pinch
of yellow grass
shivering featherless
in a shoe box
all their chunks in vain
as every bird they'd sheltered
ever knew
its their father's scent
strangely refusing
proven
formulas
