Like blades of glass in bread

like licking fires in milk

the stuff this world is made of—

the stuff we eat

the stuff we take

and make into

our breath and bones and blood—

is seasoned with little grains of hell.

(Or more substance, really, than seasoning.)

And yet, if there weren’t something better,

somewhere secret, like a rumor,

just under your nose, or under your tongue,

in the palms of hands held open flat,

I don’t think we’d all be here.

Nor would we keep up the hard, good work

of chewing life, and swallowing it, hard,

and never starving

and being fed.