Mary
stares at me
through silhouetted
crumby
wondertoast.
I am holy,
she boasts.
She is brown
and begs for butter.
confess your sins
at breakfast;
leave your secrets
within my crusts.
though
i don't know
if I can trust
this
holy dough
or if
i should talk
to toast
She seems sad
beneath a smear
of cream cheese
