EatenEatenThe troll has eaten the princess.She crawled and jabbed sticks into crannies,silk rustling skirts hiked to her knees.She peered into the blank space beneath the bridgethat bristled with the smells of dank water and pitted stone.Tadpoles wiggled the dull black of old bark.It was exciting, no more needles grinding into linenstitching petulant posies, drooping lilies.After awhile dancing balls drone, waltzes spin like irritating children tops,the kissing of hands chafe.So she dropped to her knees, the mud supple against her hands.It was exciting being eaten.Sharp moss scabbed teeth, hooked fingernailsthe yellow of dead sunflowerspiercing, digging into her porcelain flesh.Cracks spread threaded with blood.She simply mewed.But now something fiercely blooms inside the troll's stomachuntil the day he will split apart and she emerges to eat them all.
Red DirtRed DirtI eat only because my body demands it.In the South pregnant mothers eat red dirtbecause it gives them what they crave. Their bellies are full moons,their eyes constellations of what their baby will be.Forget tossed stones or chicken entrails,the lines of a palm already scarredby machinery bits, a barbed wire chicken fence.I already know what my future will be.I was given paradise but it did not want me.They told me if you are not strong enough this paradise will scar youand it has. I was meant to be pregnant at the age of 16and believe this child will be different from me.But I escaped, relentless, demanding. "Do not give into it."But paradise rejected me.I am now too slovenly, scared and desperate.I want to bite myself, taste red blood,red clay until it consumes me. I belong to it.I want the red clay until it exhausts me and whatever I may give birth to.My scars like constellations have told me we are not worthy.
StrappedStrappedAn “X”, old fashioned crucifixionEach arm, each leg strapped down, the ICU,a morphine drip, a clear tube winding into my arm.They bored 4 holes into my head, craters.Their silver tools pricked and prodded,but still delicate, an insect’s antennae sensing the air.But there is no air on the moon.I want to float from these needles and nurses,the unease of their kind hands.I am pocked and dead earth,I can only reflect what is living.
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