Kamal E. Kimball

Suckle

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.