Kamal E. Kimball
When I was a child, scouting my tiny desire,
I peered through the windows, the longings
of others. I knew that I would jaw some open,
knew that I would someday spread to the limits
set by skin. My hands knew what they wanted
before I knew the weight of want.
Then I knew throb, the struggle
of unbordered night, eagerness that fogs.
Desire pearled in on me, beaded, feathered.
I practiced desire, gave her a name
and forgot it. Grew pale-faced as the stars
that I would soon reject as shining aberrations.
Later, I listened at other windows
more and more and more for the beating
of something urgent, wing-like. I desired
permanence but just got off instead
growling into the dusk with mistakes of flesh.
I strained against the limits. I understood
little of the wild growing glutton heart, wrecking
along and catching, sometimes, an acceptable light.
I have desired the kiss of everyone, thirsted
to trap forever, to merge into gunpowder mist.
I have been alone since I can remember, since before
I bulleted from the other into the body made.
I’ve desired only what can’t be had. What I have
is my hunger. I have it, it’s mine. I have
stumbling, begging for a mouth to make me.