The God of Acceptable Risk looms
on his folding chair throne, his great belly gleaming
between t-shirt and running shorts;
the Goddess of Insurance pouts at his feet,
heavily made-up, throwing dice;
the Cherub of Mild Erotic Interest flutters
at his shoulder, trying to stay airborne,
cheating from time to time
by resting an elbow on his head.
We leave it on the chubby knees
of such gods as these, and we wonder
if our offerings are acceptable.
We have slaughtered a perfect summer
in their honor, cut off our fingers one by one
to garnish a tasteful salad of ears;
laid the tongues of our children on the grill,
fat and sputtering. We've given no eyes,
which makes us uneasy. They notice
when you're withholding. They don't like that.
On impulse we open a can of cat food
And throw it on the fire too: you can't be