when he had stood up in his own grave
greeted by his sisters and brother-apostles
— did Lazarus feel a twinge
of craving?
did he watch as Martha accidentally sliced her
finger instead of dough; did he want
severed flesh, gaping flesh
in that angry and hungry way?
the skin pulls taut over bones
as a poorly wrapped gift: too much
here and not enough there. his mouth
watering when he sees blood and bones, the
need to devour growing like weeds
in a garden.
me? – I’d be more reserved
in my bloodthirst,
buying my beef bloody, freshly sliced
a river of red and red and red
staining my fingertips as I unwrap the package.
I’d be undone with hunger,
the frenzy of feeding:
more contained, more precise, more subtle.