She keeps cutting the crusts off of bread:
those a different colour, those slightly harder
to chew.
She imposes her will on mortal lumps of flesh
through a breakfast routine, through mundanity
She collects the crusts in a jar with the sort of label
she can print at low cost, she can deride for free,
She imposes her history on new flesh,
dragging out past detritus, dragging dead dust
for seasoning.
The white tear drops of her teeth are melting
the pantry from the bread bin outwards.

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