Their halos are on backwards, drooping faces
auroraed in black raspy fibre, claws
catching at skin like scourging fibre balled
in the back of my throat ’til I can cough
it up (without Sister Agnes spying).
They keep bringing me here, and they keep on
bringing me vegetables, loveless smudges
chewed and swallowed and regurgitated.
This is not good for me, not like chocolate
gateau from a purple box, not like home.