Hungry, hungry, hungry, so I step outside to eat
sky: the hairy bottoms of low-hanging clouds.
Tastes like wet, like iceberg lettuce without the clean crunch.
I no longer bother to look where I place my feet, just feel
various structures mash beneath my weight. If I showed you
what swings lank between these legs, you’d believe my mother
was Catherine the Great. I’m a dwarf, a big fucker,
larger than most giants. I dwarf what I supposedly am
and leave the word tattered in shreds, a wilted
condom on the floor. I used to crack mastodon bones
in these jaws. Now it’s only cloud and rain. It’s probably
true I want to be pure. After nineteen thousand
years stalking this earth nothing could surprise me
less than cutting open a hillside to find a pair of eyes
blinking wetly from the clay. It happened once already,
splitting an oak: its yellow heart cracked clean as a rifle
and two dark eyes fluttered open in the rift, shouting,
The light, the light!
Gulf Stream Magazine 