C. DYLAN BASSETT

RENA’S GUIDE TO HUNGER

My scars are armed
with scars. I call this hunger
because I don’t know what else to call
these broken trees,
or this rummage in the dark
cave of my country, or my longing
for something softer.
Forget the bread, the wine.
It’s the earth I’m sick on: the wasp
under my tongue, the bloody
butterfly rampant in my stomach.
The air is silver trash: nicks and groves
of accidental music. When we cover our eyes
we cover them with coins.
But when we cover our bones
we do it with wind.
 
 
 
 
RENA’S GUIDE TO THE DESERT

In the new desert God gives you everything
hard and sharp, everything nail and hammer.
Although, the dark still resembles a body
of land, a body of water. I will not name it
loss, I will not name it oblivion. Although, I may
say something about the tooth and tongue
that mark me: how terrible it is to be
identified, to carry shards of my old self.
In a field of red mountains and snakes
I cannot tell the difference between stars
and soldiers holding guns.
 
 
 
 



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