Red With Forever’s Fat Hunger
The time we spend together goes and you
have flapped your legs the length to Croatia,
flanked by Italy’s posture,
melted with dust, melted with your
entire sky, lit only by night’s light
& the architecture of a woman in her Zadar bed.
Mountains burp a descending forgiveness
that filled your other Brooklyn
with Indian ink the soft down fur of a decade.
Our backyard has grown eight little feet
in the dampening snow
even as you cut the fat from
a foreign piglet, haul it to the farmland’s end,
the razored woods, in a father’s overgrown boots—
your male-patterned half. A pianist digs
her own cellar too
through holy frost the Adriatic brings,
and here I join you in Lidia’s hut
where Eastern Europeans never sell
magazines or cookbooks or a garlic
pasta touched by the sea organ’s fingers,
her ageless liver that filters a mountain’s pines,
Or, in the clearing where our brains exhale,
the weight of money and money’s craft.
We might bend to some small fire,
a frying pan, a rabbit or bass, raw butter,
our cooling backs, wrought iron fingers,
worked to a lather, and remember.
At five o’clock, the roads busy with ants like us
and somewhere equidistant is
my foot from brake to accelerator,
tomorrow’s small plump body
that bounds among the bark,
by a garbage trough, on stones that work
the earth, and these slurping souls,
red with forever’s fat hunger. Such lullabies
play a gentle notch that point the way to arms
that wrap your Zagreb around my shoulders.
Causes Amy King Supports