Not by Bread Alone

Like Rimbaud, I await God
as a glutton, licking my lips.
With knife and fork I carve
into churches. I dig into scripture
with a spoon. It is not enough
to eat; I need proof. If I set the table,
my God, will you come down? I’ll feed you
whatever you need: slices of pear,
flayed animals, my buttered hair.
(Then I will gorge on you and leave
the feast with divinity smeared
on my fingertips. I’ll face my palms
toward my mother and tell her
she was right: there is a Being
out there, and if she looks closely,
she’ll see something holy
left on the rim of my mouth.)