I too have taken the god into my mouth,

chewed it up and tried not to choke on the bones

Rattlesnake it was, pantries

and good though a little oily.

(Forget the phallic symbolism:

two differences:

snake tastes like chicken,

and who ever credited the prick with wisdom?)

All people are driven

to the point of eating their gods

after a time: it’s the old greed

for a plateful of outer space, that craving for darkness,

the lust to feel what it does to you

when your teeth meet in divinity, in the flesh

when you swallow it down

and you can see with it’s own cold eyes

look out through murder.

This is a lot of fuss to make about mere lunch:

metaphysics with onions.

The snake was not served with it’s tail in it’s mouth

as would have been appropriate.

Instead the cook nailed the skin to the wall,

complete with rattles, and the head was mounted.

It was only a snake after all.

(Nevertheless, the authorities agreed: God is round.)

— Margaret Atwood, Eating Snake