American Cannibal

He pressed,
the ends of his fork impaling
over and over, white teeth bared
a creak in the wood as his chair rocked
on the floor boards, trees twisted
to a square, a pretense of evolution.

Our eyes lit altars for idols born
from the hunger, to fill places
we do not wish to see.

Kings coronated from the mounds
we packed with hands that could not
hold anything but throats.

Hope, plucked from skins
as we extend our necks
weighed down by the apples
in our mouths.