VI
                                                                                                 He walks
                              across the street to the Cosmos Diner, he puts
                              a third a packet of Splenda in his coffee
                              and leans on the counter to eat his arm, he starts
                              just below the shoulder, then goes to the wrist,
                              then back again, and it is the blood they mind,
                              though he is sucking it up or draining it
                              into some cups, those diner cups, an off-white
                              with a strip of blue a quarter inch from
                              the rim, it seems to hold much less than its thickness
                              and weight would suggest and there is a saucer to match
                              though there is no stripe of blue in the saucer, he knows
                              you don’t drink blood, oh God, you don’t drink blood,
                              you drain the flesh, you salt the flesh, you pound it
                              on marble till it’s dry, you wrap it up in a
                              cotton dish towel, then you burn it or boil it,
                              and that’s for Mom, remember, Mom? I. cooked it
                              through and through, he cooked the potatoes, he peeled
                              and boiled the carrots and then parboiled the carrots
                              and then par, par—