Even Manna

Even manna stops tasting sweet 
after so many plates 
I said to the Christmas ham, 
endlessly succulent, 
cold ceramic tile under my bare feet. 
The ham stared back at me, 
stark in refrigerator light, 
oblivious to the lull between holidays 
we both occupied. 
To twist a carving knife 
bathed in honey and salt 
in my side, 
the ham reminded me of 
my famished ancestors crossing the plains. 
A pack of gingham-clad 
widows of Zarephath 
carefully forming the last of their flour 
into a simple cake. 
Certainly, I said to nobody, 
pioneer men proud of their kills 
wished some buffalo were 
not quite so big. 
Certainly there were times 
they said silent prayers of thanks 
for the brevity of a duck. 
For them, 
I fix myself a plate of buffalo 
for the fifth consecutive meal. 
And I pray over my leftovers
but do not ask for fish and loaves 
multiplication. 
No, but for simple gratitude. 
For the ability to appreciate this cup 
that keeps spilling all over 
my immaculate kitchen floor.