There was once a girl whose hands bloomed into camellia,
Her body blossomed petal-red and radiated warmth,
Like the center of a wound or some common angel —
Until her appetite grew too enormous,
And God had to tuck her away behind his black velvet ropes.

At night she climbs into his stomach
In search of sustenance such as a sardine
Or an unpeeled orange,
Something to taste without tearing,
Something without the acrimonious gnashing of teeth.

Heaven doesn’t give you even a zipper to chew on,
Only an ankle bone and an empty white room.

Lisa has no choice but to squeeze into his side
That small door for a smaller bite of body — the aphrodisiac,
The communion wafer watered with blood and honey
And its small white tag reading
                                                        eat me

                 Lisa is illiterate, but she eats and eats
                 Until her stomach distends —