– Poetry by Maggie Thistle –
My breasts once wept at the first musings of a strangers hunger-
smacking lips, a pursed, round strawberry
and wet with the taste of milk still on the tongue,
they would swell into obesity, heaving with gold so sweet
and warm that sometimes it ached as it was being made
and often it could not even wait for a mouth to hold it,
exploding in to lace triangles and pooling in the folds of nearby skin.
My body once drained itself fully with a willingness unasked,
weeping drips to fill bellies full enough to ease slumber,
hushing away emptiness and cushioning ribs
with washes of calm in place of want.
My own body, now starved and sour, turns cold against it own ache,
withholding sympathy as if my ration has ran out,
ignoring the sores with a flippant hand
and offering only a withered smirk as aid,
it lets the pangs ring out like bells in the belly, hollow and shrill.
It lets the pain scale my spine and then spirals down slides of shame.
My body now drags, a fraying sack of sticks stretched worn and raw,
not just from the paucity of care but from the running scripts inside of me.
The ones that mutter coolly that wanting is power,
hunger is home and worth does not come easy.
Now, smacking lips and strawberry mouthed,
I wait for the humble offerings of a body willing to give.
There are no kisses left to use between us,
all softening flesh happens only after necks are broken
and veins are popped like berries in the beaks of birds
I am nothing but skin and juice slopped down the corners in haste
with throats upturned to the gods, there is no time for taste
just swallows and gulps to push it straight to the belly as quick as it can.
And when the pulp trickles down inside you
I wonder if you even feel the hunger brake
or if you only understand fullness once there is nothing left to take.
About the Author – Maggie Thistle
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