The Glutton, by Sylvia Plath

He, hunger-strung, hard to slake,
So fitted is for my black luck
(With heat such as no man could have
And yet keep kind)
That all merit’s in being meat
Seasoned how he’d most approve;
Blood’s broth,
Filched by his hand,
Choice wassail makes, cooked hot,
Cupped quick to mouth;
Though prime parts cram each rich meal,
He’ll not spare
Nor scant his want until
Sacked larder’s gone bone-bare.

///

[Read in Collected Poems, published by Faber & Faber. Ripped from http://www.internal.org/Sylvia_Plath/The_Glutton.]