Judith Roche
HUNGER
All life born of hot thrust and eager
clinch is born to die
while those who come from
slow cell division can live forever.
The soul's flesh ripens
and chaffs, stretches and cramps
caught in her confine.
Still, the soul must be amused
at her changing clothing, perhaps
enjoying it as theater, snake skin
high heels, gritty bars, with big cheap red wine.
The soul, always, hungry, watches
the fleshy appetites and says
no, no that's not what I want,
but we, animal-ethereal alliances
that we are, break our hearts and health
trying to feed her what she cannot use
and does not want, her darl night
driving us to outrageous extremes,
while hunger, blind
begging and nagging at us,
gnaws out flesh and leeches
our bones.
Copyright © 1996 Judith Roche
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