by Jessica Khailo



I am a vulture,

with death in my wings

and a head with no feathers.

I plucked them for you,

for when you’re gone,

and I’m hungry.

Name something

more ravenous.

 

I’m scared of my lines:

in the sand,

on the page.

The place where it breaks

near the curve of my hip,

and meanders toward soft pockets.

Behind my knees.

Between my legs.

Name something more ravenous

than this virgin hunter.

Name something

more terrifying,

more eager

than me.

 

You are a vulture,

my heart in your beak.

Name something more ravenous

than a wandering tongue

as you taste every wound

I’ve clumsily sliced

into the sinews of my youth.

I did it for me,

to feel something carnal,

consuming,

controlling.

I did it for you,

for when I’m gone,

and you’re hungry.

Name something

more generous,

more willing

to bleed.

 

Name something more ravenous

than a torn perineum

from birthing my Prima Materia

or a film on the roof of my mouth

from gnawing through that pulsing cord.

I forget that it’s mine

as I tenderly form

a sphere from the caul

and listen for the ocean:

Proof of a more subtle nature.

Name something more perfect,

more godly

than this.



(*This poem was originally published in:  The Quarter(ly), Vol. V: Burn This Fucker Down, 2023)