10.19b (or 10.21, if you like)

As one of dust she came to curse me

while I held her bones and skin,

'till I felt her knotted anger,

and she told me to begin.

The loose youth was hanging off her;

in its slack I found her hard.

All her summer self had wasted

soft and lazy in the yard. 

What great sin had been her driver

in the all-consuming plan

to have done with eating substance

and to only eat a man?

"Let us eat," she breathed through flaky lips
locked tightly to her grin,
"It's awfully nice to have you," here,
she paused, "for dinner, friend."

I can't hope for mute forgiveness,
not with memories this crass,
as I pay for all my wanting

and I take a bite at last.

"You're delectable," I mumble,

picking anger from my teeth,

"Like a brief bouquet of passion,"

though my tongue detected grief.

And it was quite the sudden feeling:

to have met death at the end

as a really complex person

with my entrails on her chin.