so much of what’s wrong
is folded in my pocket
immediate, temporal meat
for the one
who swallows
the many
and stays hungry
we used to feed him children
that is not what was meant
by the words in the eagle’s beak
screened on paper
we kill for
there is One
fourth person
indefinite
that is never bought
or made, past zero
and over it
who can’t be touched
or dazzled
by gifts
because we can’t
give back
to the maker
any made thing
but us
which was the point
of sacrifice
to begin with
but this time
not by proxy
Susan Daniels Poetry 