365 Poems/205 Hungry (Rough First Draft)
We have made no fresh tracks today,
and breakfast passed four hours
and forty seven minutes ago.
I’m still seething it skipped your mind
it was my day to lick the porridge spoon clean.
Last night, with a tone cold as permafrost,
before we shivered ourselves asleep,
you said my spirit had moved elsewhere.
You finish your chocolate before me,
whisper save a corner, please. I don’t reply.
You want to take off the soles of your feet,
but instead, wind around bandages made
from underpants to keep them attached.
You play with sore fingers, sticky as honey.
I wish you’d fallen headfirst into a crevasse.
Left me with the remaining rations.
We boil the head of the weakest husky.
Chomp at his lips, nip his eyelids,
bite eyeballs like nectarines.
I savour the tongue, you the cheeks.
We scoop out the brain, you eat
half a teaspoon more and it takes
all I have to not cut you open.
The storm has yet to subside.
Hunger beats our ribs