Sara, widow, 31
Henry pulled our heartwood along the rutted street
that town stood beside, built two rooms
and called them home. My Henry did that.
There. And I lived all those days inside his love.
But there is a kind of hunger that feeds
on flesh. Only, let it be yearning, heaving,
rising flesh. Only, let it be flesh living
and loving. Alive. Let it be life.
There is a kind of hunger that feeds on life.
They carved into him with banquet knives,
made stew of his skin and stirred it
with his own bones. My Henry served: the meat
and the pot to cook it in. And there was no charge
against the men who made that meal.
Camille Dungy, "We are two rooms of one timber, but I left that place alone" from What to Eat, What to Drink, What to Leave for Poison. Copyright 2006 Camille Dungy. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.
Source: What to Eat What to Drink What to Leave for Poison
(Red Hen Press, 2006)
Poems by Camille T. Dungy