Hunger
Sister Jordan cuts thickly from the
watercolor clouds of the North Georgia
Mountains, breathing spores,
cracking sticks.
She wants a husband but may as
well be chasing gryphons, rocs,
a decent martini.
She nears the Silverton cut,
conjures a sigh that stills the
rain. It’s late, and though
she feels the spark of youth in
her eyes, steps with the lift of
a colt, the touch of her own
fingers has become a meal
tasted too often,
incurable by spices.
She dreams the callused hands of a
farmboy, tracing her kneecap, flash of
neurons, tongueswipe, nape, lobe,
calf, the fullness as he
drives himself inside,
a hand on either hip.
A picture in the paper.
Dead at forty-six.
Thirty-eight lovers since;
the numbers leave her cold.
She kneels on a rock to
dip a hand in the stream.
The chill makes her smile.
She feels a nibble and finds a
brown trout sniffing her hand.
The trout stands on its hind
fins and casts a very unfishlike smile.
Greetings! I am a telepathic
love trout. If you pick me
up and kiss my left gill,
I will show you unfathomable
worlds of delight.
Sister Jordan cradles the fish in
her hands. She sets her
mouth upon its side.
Two coals in the shape of
Midwestern states. They fall
together, releasing a burst of sparks.
Jordan awakes, the taste of
salt upon her lips, and tosses
the last of the bones into
the fire. Perhaps tomorrow she
will find a bass.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV
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