Pity the flesh

Centuries of flesh
At broken will
An apple became
A red flashing till
Pity the flesh
That misses you
In stealth
The texture
The taste
The dick
The teet
That nurtured in death daily
Now makes me weep sickly
Without the spit
And surge
Bent over without the break
Carved in sound without the chop
Every cell of my being
Sweet as lamb of God
What evolves here might flop
Yet grows the mountain
Of kindest hands
That prop up the cupboard
In innocent planted root
Not the goldfish, nor the cat.
Yet what will opens what door
To salvation and glory and overjoy
To this wild world
That may soon end
Where these thoughts pour
Unatainable muscle anymore...
No more the mother cries
Yet worse the end
At the full table or,
One step closer to the fresh field
And warmed stable
At rich price
Billions of people ready the hunt
Yet starving in droves
Who bares the arrows
Of cupids sweetest pain-free blows
Can we sweep it under the rug
Forever?
Ask yourself.
I ask me. Heather.