i am a hungry mother fucker.
i liter holes in these apples. drill beads in your lamb.
yesterday, i was all membrane.
lucky yolk. frozen potential.
today, i stopped being your easter.
no more plastic/crayon/vinegar/dye, bitch
i arrived hungry.
popped out famished. i thought
three plums would fill me up:
bruises fallen rotten to the earth
like something clumsy, no.
their pits just reminded me of my own, the
thumbprint seed stripped of yellow flesh aching in
the last fingers of daylight, asking to be planted in
someone else hold me
to expectations and i will eat those too.
season them proper:
garlic, pepper, thyme, my stomach
is a green temple. kneel to the catacombs, the caterpillars.
the buried undead. the chain link
fence of my torso. you say: cocoon your hunger.
wrap it in a damp cloth, soothe that fever,
but i can’t bother being changed. today,
i ate your whole city,
spit out the bones. today,
i swallowed the moon
stem first, in one gulp.
Callan Foster is a lesbian poet and high school librarian. She lives in Seattle with her cat, Ralph.