A hunger pulling like a stalled car,
like the last few drops of milk
swishing around in the bottom of the gallon,
that green dress
slipping up her thighs.
Substituting a craving for salt
as my mouth meets the tide.
Your body on the stairs.
Your body
soft & fluid
against the wall.
I can’t help the howl.
Feed the bad wolf as it begs
like gravity for a freefall.
We could have been the three
dirt girls -
brown, black, and red.
Until I toed the tip of the
mountain, mouth
covered with a sheet of cold air,
feet flailing & flirting
with the pines below.
Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who has trouble sitting still. Follow her writing on Twitter @apoetrybomb.
