So the disciples gorge themselves on honey dipped spam
crowned with the many crowns of identical pineapple rings
as they jostle for spots on the picnic blanket, and the children

spread marshmallow fluff onto sinewy plates of canned yams
and lick off their hands in unison. The whole hillside exalts
the name of the Lord when the angels on horseback arrive–

bacon wound around cubes of cheddar cheese on pointed sticks,
roasted over coals—and then all fall silent again when a single
jar of tuna and seven small prunes ignite into a prune tuna

towering inferno. It’s hard when you feel so full to imagine
the feast of all feasts lasting forever, to understand just how many
or few can be fed from one crown roast of lamb on a bed

of canned carrots, braised in brown sugar and as blessed as grief.