theoria

By Rodney Koeneke
Blood to babe to father’s
laden table. Dance, said
the father, show us your grace.
Whose tattered cotton
whose weary gristle, heads
duly shriven, wrenched
in complaint? Cleft so a heart
works without wanting,
summoned to pleasure,
free to pick dates. Curve
into cursive, praxis to ashes.
What reveler considers
the number of plates?