She felt she must face this room, this heavy stifled room, this weighty fact of where she was and with what. She must eat this room with her breakfast....
It was hard to swallow. Her throat was dry and was full. Above her the chandelier came down in a tawdry twist of gilt from the dim ceiling. The gilt flaked, and she saw black iron.
“Does it taste good?” asked Clara.
She looked at Clara.—God, how dare I pity her! You are good. What you have, you have given me.... “Yes, Dear, it tastes good. You made it. It tastes of your hands.”
They ate ... the breakfast, the room.
“Give me your hand!” Fanny clasped it across the table. A bit of toast it held fell in the sudden sally and the butter smeared the palm. Fanny opened the palm, she held it full against her mouth. She kissed the grease and the flesh.
“I am eating you,” she spoke.
Clara’s eyes were frightened. So she laughed.
“You dear!... Could you eat some more toast?”
—How do I know what I eat?
God, you insult us.
If we must feed on dirt
Why give us love of the Clean?
Why give us fear of the dirt
If we must feed on dirt?
Since we must eat and eat
Why give us knowledge?...
What do I eat?
If I must feed on You
God, why do I forget?