Il Burchiello’s “Self Portrait as a Tasty Morsel”

in prison

I lie on this crappy table to rise like dough,
but putting me in the oven won’t work;
here are four little corners so dark
that I light them up with my hands as I go,

and I gnaw them like I had a dog’s fangs,
and I haven’t since been able to wash it down,
and I am here by I-know-whose petition,
but I’ve silenced the church bells’ clangs.

My body often rumbles and lets out such cries
that one day I get a response from a female dove,
thinking I was a male of her species—