Because we are hungry, we feed on fringe,
we graze on the swinging haze of misplaced
longing, sigh with a sullenness that smolders
like forest fire embers hidden in dark ash,
wind lashing old heat to burn renewed.
If only this raw hole was from lightning
strikes, the scar a stripe wedded to amber.
We’d eventually feel new growth push out
of us, we’d scavenge beetles & seeds & delight
in scalded snags, raised like flagrant flagpoles.
But our scar is not from arson or a loosened
signal fire. It’s worried flesh rubbed raw–
an effect of the forgiveness we do not believe
we need but cannot afford to refuse.
Our emptied stomachs, tattoos of desire.
/ / /
Riffing on Carolee’s fabulous first line, having changing the tense.