Elijah and the Widow

Even ravens need crust,something.

Left behind, everyone left.

It begs the question:

jar bottom,

a flag of surrender?

Hostile, hand-held, the haze.

Always the tone;

never the ringing.

Driven you

to the pot where the flour is

hoped for, hidden—& then, his face in the doorway—have,

eat—Yes, we are eaten—still a future, grim, O,

won’t you come in.

I would have baked the cake &

died. Instead, you perform, participate in

onerous miracle, & tomorrow

wake up, blinking, hoary film under your nails.