Hungry Ghost
by Evan Harrison
After the first
night of wine
and it backing up
in my mouth, draining
laboriously through
the throat
like bath water
down a hairy drain,
I became less fooled
than you—
my molars washed
in red, my tongue
pushing back, and finally
my chin streaked—
because what looks painful
is not what is painful.
Your neck
like a squat sugar jar,
mine, a twig,
know
no garment holds
this, my waste heap belly.
Wandering,
skull like a tulip,
there is no pain.
Hunger no longer
lurks behind
functionality.
In mirrors
I watch the truth—
this new incongruity
of my body.
