comestible...

we

are the nightmares 

that pigs have

that cows have

sleeping fitful in fields —

they feel our hunger
like we feel lightening

crackling in leaden air

standing in a field

in a raging storm

beneath a big tree

whose conductive roots

we imagine travel all the way

to the place that we call home

— we strike from a distance

fiercely decisive, with appetites

that split living breathing beings

full of desire and longing 

clean down to the bone...

lucy meskill