Hunger
Dec 24 2010


In winter, there is food and shelter
and not much else.
Except for the holiday season
of gifts, with receipts
well-meant greetings
New Year’s eve.
The forced gaiety
of vague beginnings,
according to the calendar.

In the forced-air heat
my lips crack, and bleed,
dry skin
feels tight, and prickly.
As if I’m shrinking
slowly.
It’s hard to feel desire
under all these clothes,
prudently layered
against the cold.

But the shovelling over
the stores all closed
we sit by the fire
almost touching,
stoke it up ‘til it roars.
Entranced by flame,
the dance of shadow
on the wall in back.

In the unaccustomed heat
we begin unbuttoning.
Unfasten zippers and clasps,
wiggle out of tops,
peel off
thermal underpants
skin-tight skivvies.

And thinking back
to a bad year
the one we’ll usher out, the beginning of another
in the vegetative funk
of darkness,
we are overcome by lust,
naked skin flushed, and hungry.

Hoping desire, at least
has come
to rescue us.