Even on the main road, black wing
and gloss. A call without such sorrow.
Wheel ruts in nameless light. Snow cold.
How long until you land,
each feather fluffed with the faithless world?
There is such ungodliness
in what the tongue will feed on.
You make the road a table,
demand pleasure in ransom,
bragging your laws with glottal stops.
And now, the gorge—
the eye, skin, leg. As tires move by,
your endless chewing.
It seems like rage, but it is only hunger.
From Took House
by Lauren Camp
(forthcoming from Tupelo Press in 2020)