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IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK | TRUE COLORS
Hunger
A poem
Having swallowed the oil of existence,
I was born full to sickness,
a temper copper and rancid, a tempest of acid.
Sparks splatter with each wail from my mouth —
More, more, more,
snapping, spitting at the world.
Mouth open, ribs stuffed, stomach sore;
still, I crave a color never tasted before.
I wander through the seasons,
a grazing locust hopping from green to yellow,
devouring the spring of my life,
draining the dregs from my marrow
‘til air flows cleaner,
breath comes easier —
nothing in my gut but a whistle.
I have swallowed a new kind of food.
Hunger.
Grey and wet-bread soft,
yet it lands with the weight of metal.
Hunger growls, flares, grits its teeth,
aching to consume the meat of fullness,
as fullness once yearned for its bones.
Two faces on the same head,
forever turned away.
More is all I have tasted,
more is all I will ever be.
