memories of meat, refleshed.

the journal has been let go, another man
in a series of childhood forgetfulness
unraveling the cotton candy that melts
and glues to the shiny horse's stiffened mane:
sticky on the hand that is too warm, refusing
to bear the cold in the winter but, it eats all
the snow in the kitchen at night
when no one is looking. born stubborn,
they all say about her and the things,
she knows, are truer than her mother's
nipples...though she has never seen
the breasts that fed her infancy, so,
maybe she was never fed
when she cried for someone,
and if that were true, then this hunger is
well explained--blank as ever
as words go, but smeared clear
with fingerprints of those who had
the courage to stay a night or three
before she let go and ate them all.