Creation Myth
Tess Matukonis
My appetite returns after you left me and it’s fried
chicken I crave. It's at the gas station, blistered as Death Valley,
it glistens in the grocery store under illicit incandescence.
I shove it all in. Rococo breading crumbles like sandstone
between my teeth. Wet tendons gleam and clench my fingers.
This batter suffocates all memory, grounding it.
After believing I’d never eat again, I savor an occupied
mouth. Will I start to take for granted each roadside
diner's infinite thighs, hot and ready, all by swiping
my card and grabbing napkins for the aftermath?
Do I question the hunger for anything outside of myself?
I lay the naked bones into the garbage can, begin to digest
that which always circles, wipe the grease from the blackhole.
I look down and realize my jean shorts no longer button.