[Sonnet] by Marie Ponsot

[gold-alarm.livejournal.com]

It haunts us, the misappropriated flesh,
be it Pelops' shoulder after Demeter's feast
or Adam's rib supporting Eve's new breasts,
or the nameless root of Gilgamesh.

Who am I that a given beast must die
to stake the smoulder of my blood or eyes?
Were only milk, fruit, honey to supply
my table, I would not starve but thrive.

But then the richer goods I misappropriate
(time wasted, help withheld, mean words for great)
would blaze forth and nag me to repudiate
the habitual greed of my normal state

My guts delight twice in the death I dine on,
once for hunger, once for what meat distracts me from.

The Drowned Girl by Ursula K. Le Guin

[tentaclecore]

My head is wet
My head is wet

Something
Something
I forget

I did not want to wash my hair

Something terrible
unbearable
or maybe not

Sometimes babies are born dead

It doesn't matter
in the water
what I wanted or forgot