I cut my teeth on death. Opened my eyes to a too-tall casket Filled with the fresh scent of funeral home. Cried, cried, cried because it Smelled like my own little hungers.
Time was recumbent and rusting under its skin From the words beating again and again In the mouth of the old man from the funeral factory. They were singing on fleshy metal meat About what pain cuts like.
Too hard benches and too angry light Shooting from the many-colored windows With half-rate pictures recycled From a time like this one Hurt like a god to these little eyes.
The beams stretched and grew like a Gospel of Pain, Eating, eating, eating my grandfather's casket Into its hour by hour growing light Like a painting dooming a moment to swell Into an imitation of forever.
The light was angrier outside when we left. The old man had banned it from witnessing A husk and a promise of rot And every would-be-martyr that had been called From the depths of just-below-heaven.
It was like a nap, someone said When they remembered to feed me, Remembered to answer all the usual questions, Remembered to tell me that the worst of things Only happen to the worst of people.