spoons and tongs

feast on life,
not at a sit-down dinner,
all dressed up
in your fineries,
and smacking of
a polished tongue,
not with knives and forks,
spoons and tongs,
and thin-stemmed glasses
all held in the same way,
raising a toast
to a plush life;

no, sit down,
close to the earth,
so you can hear her whisper,
so you can feel her breathe,
and smell the blood and the rain
she's soaked in;
yes, feast on her
sharing every morsel
with your tribe,
young and old,
singing songs,
sharing stories,
laughing, crying,
and dancing even
as you eat;
dig into her
with your fingers, 
it doesn't matter
if they are sullied,
lick your fingers,
feed each other
with your hands,
the hands
that have toiled
with love,
to create
this one blessed life
that we have
to share,
to feast.