Although my body stopped feeding
that organ known as “my soul”
some time ago,

I still write messages to it
on paper plates,
and then I eat off them
and them alone,
hoping something will soak through.

When I tell you this,
all you can think of to say is,

why are you killing all those trees?

O, how I pray
that you stop asking.
This is why
I lower my eyes
in your presence
and grit my teeth:

you call attention to the slaughter
all around me,
and still manage to entirely
miss the point.