We eat another life so as to live.
A corpse of pork with departed cabbage.
Every menu is an obituary.
Even the kindest of souls
must consume, digest something killed
so that their warm hearts
won’t stop beating.
Even the most lyrical of poets.
Even the strictest ascetics
chew and swallow something
that once kept itself growing.
I can’t quite reconcile this with good gods.
Unless they’re naïve,
unless they’re gullible,
and gave all power over the world to nature.
And she, frenzied, sends us hunger,
and where hunger begins,
innocence ends.
Hunger instantly joins forces with the senses:
taste, smell, and touch, and sight,
since we don’t fail to notice what dishes
are served on which plates.
Even hearing plays a part
in what takes place,
since cheerful chatter often rises at the table.