The dead found their way into his fists.
At night, he held the knife in one hand.

He held the chicken breast in the other.
I wanted to touch his hard shoes, hard belt, hard wrists.

He made harder demands, so I never touched him.
When he played Clair de Lune, I gnawed the song to the bone.

Thunder fell like a song and bruised my bones blue,
minor chords scattering like horses.

Dinner scattered across the table, dressed in white.
I feasted on rice and spring rolls, pork, duck, crab.

I feasted like a king and a granddaughter.
He never crumbled. He ate my leftovers,

the crumbs. Later, he washed the moon away.
The dead found their way into his fists.