Bred for Hunger

They came for the crumbs,

knowing our clumsy fingers

left much to be desired.

The body of the waif,

whose ribs impress outward

in a shrouded plea, waits

to petition our maturity

on knee joint, cutting blood 

from heart to feet. 

They came for the crumbs,

moaning organ to marrow —

A dirge, a gentle word:

We are alone, the feral.