Leftovers

                Through my blind stomach’s lens
When all I knew was hunger—
Always just short of just enough—

                Cabbage soup, rationed meat.
With a still un-succored soul,
Stomach-panged:  in dreams, I feasted.

                Would have ever sufficed.
Prayers were starving wishes.
Grace was mythic luxury.

                Of throwing away food
At the end of every meal,
Consuming comfort from excess.

Not enough to wrap up
                (or feed  needy  others):
Dainty icons to surplus,
Perfectly portioned acts of waste:

An ounce of veal,
                A spot of boursin mash,
Two spears of asparagus,
Chunks of parmesan ciabatta.

                With béchamel’d grace,
                With truffle’d arrogance,
                With umami’d reckoning,
My exuberant extras—
                My leftovers—
                On a loathing emptied plate,
Through re-collected dreams,
                Where hope yields to grace,
To a writhing, cakeless boy.