“And He said to me, “Son of man, feed your belly, and fill your stomach with this scroll that I give you.” So I ate, and it was in my mouth like honey in sweetness.”
— Ezekiel, 3:3, New King James Version

For Sharon Olds

The boy who keeps his head down, hooding the light, is turned out for spilling boiled mutton fat onto the feast sturgeon, killing the humming of four-and-twenty hovering in that cavity. The gardener takes pity. Peelings and egg shells rot down, until a fine loam inhabits the fingers’ identities. Tending the hives becomes a book of hours. The king’s daughter sees him among hairy rhubarb. Is he hiding? Later, he’s admitted to the king on an errand. Habituated to dark matter, the boy’s body can’t admit that kind of light, if it’s a good king. The boy turns away.

*

It’s late spring in the City. I’m with the Empress and have almost stopped asking, do I deserve the space my body fills? I’ve come via ambiguous masters in the north. Bark-shinned, in vulture robes, they waited in obscurity for a knowledge fish—then gorged until sucking gleaned the bones, avid, glancing around—cast servant a skin. I hear her praise something in my singing, but an emptiness still wants the old teachings buoying inside my head, like hypnotised water. Bright insects try to feed me. Open your mouth like a scroll.