All we know is how it feels
when winter ends and we hunger
for those words, butter and cream,
fatty words, weedy words,
words that grow so dirty
grow so crispy raw. Someone said
he tired of how he slipped
between the seasons, between
brittle silences strung

out, no one feeds
the cook I know those
empty suppers hoarding
scraps some leftovers to
link we try so hard we're
boneless skinless stinking left
years in the fridge to

rot she bit him green
cucumber crunch her throat he
slid it slick they fell
down on their knees they boiled
they stewed they choked on hope
grown cold like seed concealed
so deep 'neath miles of snow
dead grass and dirt they know
won't yield to sand they
sit and wonder why it's easier
to waste and still can only

understand, can only
understand.

09/30/2006

Posted on 09/30/2006
Copyright © 2025 Ariane Scott