Rappahannock Review | Sarah McCartt-Jackson
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Hunger

 

What was there left
to do? I felt the stackrock,
roofslick and shaly.
Saw mica sparkle
in the clay. It heaved
bottom up, cracked
like a spine, coal ribs
limed in dust.
Small specks of flame.
What was there left
to do? I ate the crumbs
from my dinner pail
looked into the dark
turned into a bear.

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