Eating our young

Eating our young
 
Yolk pools like yellow blood on white plates and napkins.
Bacon curled, little flayed bodies pantomiming television.
Talk centers on nine year-olds sexting, oh yeah, well your dick
is tiny. Nine. A dick the size of a sausage link at best. Coarse
talk for salted little girl lips, staining her fingers, gyrating
brain in its whirlygig of confused language, impossible urge.
Mimosas cloud the table in pale orange light, tongues fizz
in a champagne orchard. Imagine everything not little
about the scenario. Well I would set boundaries. Each plate
glistens like a wet battlefield, all energy transferred over.
Valium passed around without any usual theatrics.
I knock mine back with sweet tea, see a child playing
a few tables over with a glowing glass screen.
Her fingers, wet with jelly, glide across it.

(Originally appeared in SAND, Issue 14)