My hollow stomach wallops as though I’ve swallowed a bleating goat. It kicks and butts and bahs, rips my villi like mouthfuls of grass. I am its pasture, and this –
This is how I know I like him better than other men.
Falling fast. Outside it’s ten below. Frosted windows. Ruddy toes. Snow’s no place for roaming goats, and so I am a glassy greenhouse feeding the pleasures of hunger. I make a garland out of dodder, clover and button mushrooms plucked from my own gut.
For Caprice has no freezing point, and I delight to feed it open-palmed, expecting my offerings to disappear. Without regret when they are gone.
The featured image was taken by Flickr user Scot Nelson and is used under a Creative Commons license.