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There's a hunger that grows depth.
by Bob ArcaniaI weave your fingers through rigid
prairie grasses. I have not eaten
for a week straight.
There are spoons beneath my feet
where I walk. Every muscle I know
well is sore from your sleep.
I sip your ghost furious through my lips.
I do not own my room, your bed
does as it swallows the wall space.
I leach to your underbelly, paint
your windows to keep you inside.
I cant stop for a bowl of rice.
I pulled each of my cracked teeth.
I can smile now bloody gums. I can
taste I am famous. I am your known.
I am world worn to a toothpick. 01/02/2007 Posted on 01/02/2007
Copyright © 2024 Bob Arcania
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Frankie Sanchez on 01/03/07 at 07:25 PM "I sip your ghost furious through my lips." damn. i'm pretty sure i have felt this piece before, felt that hunger, and reading it now yields something powerful.
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| Posted by Kathleen Wilson on 01/03/07 at 09:13 PM The heightened sensitivity of fasting driven to the poetic core. Fine and original imagery-- my personal painting the windows from the inside experience popped into my mind here-- but I painted them (pink) at 3am to keep "monsters" out--my little daughter kept waking and seeing them... The wild consistency and intimacy is great in this poem. |
| Posted by Aaron Blair on 01/04/07 at 06:07 AM The world has worn you down to a toothpick, or to a toothpick you appear to be world worn? |
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