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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