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"untitled" issue
december 2002
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kathy ireland green
You Don’t Know How Hungry I Am
short breaths for weeks
each clock tick drawn out
in the hurt
the thin lit air
of my lung
in my animal memory of you
I spread my hands on your chest
my waxy fingers down hairs
thready friction
down to warm sturdiness
the surprise when we embrace
you come home, we’re standing
you don’t know how hungry I am
you stiffen like a baby or
become eely, bending like the cat
turning quickly out of my arms
you have books to read
Knowledge
in our breakfast room
the sun comes up
and greens through the trees
cicadas ring a
wild wing swoon
into the liquid of air
this is when you asked:
count the cans in our cupboard, Kath,
there is no more waiting,
you can not wait,
Count the cans in our cupboard
because winter is coming;
Take stock of things.
the weights in my clock hang stopped
and the flutter of my wing
folds in to something dry
my ink runs to scratch on the pad
there are no pens
good for shopping lists
there is no inventory
there is no money
I used to measure my fat;
pull on my wedding ring,
hope for a sigh of air
a gap between metal and skin
In your garden
leaves tear from the trees,
from our bodies,
patter on the lawn.
The hollow sun is old, and brittle;
its white extinguishes into a black pool.
You touch the naked circle,
like the one on my finger.
I am sorry;
I must take stock of things
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