Penance for Anger

Many times you have fed me, my dear,
but not this morning when I fast on
my imagined pillar with real crows
for company. They do not pretend to
be ravens wandered from a story I have
almost forgotten, these carrion eaters
who live on death and prey on corruption.
They will not feed me, I who have eaten
my own death and pray for resurrection
at your hands, nor will manna from heaven,
my woe is not so high, my need more humble.
My penance pleads my faith, hands that
touch, lips that speak, bodies that join
are not deceived by dark words gathered
like crows to wait the end of love.