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a poem by Sarah Dorrance
t's a terrible thing
to feel the bones crunch
beneath your teeth,
flesh tearing off and getting caught
to linger, accusing,
on the roof of your mouth.
To gnaw, after long years
of abstinence. To chew.
The dust of the road,
already choking in your throat,
mingles with the dust of bones
and fleshy parts
and chokes you.
You eat, and you die as you eat,
and death refuses to hurry.
And then, sweet relief!
the blood pouring down your throat,
merciful release, sweet firey liquid,
terrible and giving,
terrible in its giving.
All is drowned.
All thought of need, all hunger
for sense and meaning,
is held under the river, drowned.
Nothing survives this.
You are left shaking and naked,
a wan spirit, skin and bones
ripped away,
body taut with newness,
aching for this strange comfort.
After this, all food is
too solid, all drink too weak,
and the sun burns harsh,
bringing tears to your eyes.
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