A Prayer Against Etiquette

       Is it not holy — 
the way my love
       foregoes
the formalities
       of a spoon?
This peasant
       posture,
the silly slump
       of her spine, 
the egret angle
       of her elbows
nudging
       some invisible
neighbor’s
       ribs. Tell me
what manners
       matter
in Heaven?
       See how a noodle
bit dribbles
       from her lip
when she rakes
       her tender wrist
across a long
       sniffle, how
she bows again
       halfway,
tilting
       with both hands
this cheap
       plastic bowl
of hot brown broth
       to meet her
eager mug,
       breathing in
a savory basil
       steam. She
plunges
       her face deep
into the delicious
       void. Tonight
I beg
       Paradise — 
be not bereft
       of the shameless
slop and slurp
       of good soup.
This woman
       I love. The glory
of her snort.