how she leaves the house starving for wind that thrusts the clouds across lean sky, the grasses that snarl around her as she waits beneath leaves and light the sun pours on her skin— how she surges into his red car, breath fervent as ghosts caught by her thirst at the drift of his hair in his eyes, the fever on her flesh before he touches her— how she yanks herself into the self she makes as she burns in her need to be fire the passion to tear her throat with her singing, to swallow the world as it rings with glory— how the pang in her belly twists through her as his mouth leaves her breasts, as he stretches above her, wet with her his hands plant at her sides in the sharp hollow moment before he eases himself into her there— how the great, empty ache of her watches alone in the park as a boy learns to feed ducks, as a girl somersaults herself down the rise, as a toddler learns the ground beneath her feet— how she watches the years behind her trembling there as though they could spill over her again as if she could catch one and know its flavour again through simple, singular desire— how she still feels each wrench in her gut thundering for life, breath, how she could eat the world alive— meaning how I could— and how we would hunger still© Neile Graham
First published in ARC magazine