28. Hartland

On a bright day, I realized that
if the god's are angry, they
are shouting over the same cold plate;
the familiar carrot children, the cob
the greasy chicken fresh from the grill, among it

hair fell from my shoulders as I saw a leg 

jabbed here and there, above the barber,
and I felt it inside me. The places where
the gravy pools, with a kernel of corn,
sitting condemned by the white peaks,
who never laid low or were ever glazed;
"We've kept our shape, we've kept our shape!"
they holler, "purity!", they holler, "high pride";

unaffected as they are, they are, ignorant of the potato, 

and their darker ground years, before they were dug. 

On a bright day, I realized
if the god's are angry, they
may very well also be quite hungry.