Frank tithes a tenth to the church.
He tithes another tenth to himself
and confesses to his priest, My soul
must burn in hell because I sacrifice
my life so that others may live. Ha!
He recites:
For my love, I sacrifice life;
For liberty, I sacrifice love.
At lunch he sits ass aside other asses
on flawless girders awaiting shipment
to the war effort this they must sacrifice.
Whiteonions. Blackbread. Mudcoffee. Saltpork.
Tastes like torta, like sweat off a woman after
love tastes, like thin confection of nightshirt
between them. We are pressed meats and butter
cakes! Come, let us make another perfect girder
before the whistle ends our grazing asses.

For the workers there is a country of bakers
between foreman and themselves; dunes of flour,
seas of vinegar between. They crossed into famine
where Ferenc crossed into a woman who bakes
money in this factory--the foreman drinks wine
of their blood, eats the bread of their flesh.
Between them is money thin as a wafer.
We are the pressed meats, they say, butter
cakes! Come, we make another perfect girder.

The wet dough of their asses flattened arise
after their wife arms suddenly gentle spread
almonds and sourcherry across their memory
of how they came to suffer: Their sons must steal
sweets. Baba says, do not strike. God will punish.
"Matki, matki," Ferenc sighs, "is time to work."
The whistle screams the oven is now hot enough.

All rise.
Tej van. Kenjer van. Es van.
Take; eat; this is my flesh.
Take; drink; this, my blood.