Crave

"craving sex with her mate was one of the things she'd given up in exchange for all the good things in their life together" from Freedom by Jonathan Franzen

6,000 miles is nothing

that can rip the pitchfork

hunger I have for your body

from my clenching hands. Words

fall like stony soil between

the wasting space of this impalement,

this desire to be the forever

innocent throat for your ignorant growl. Why

do I crave this silencing

violence of another tongue

making meat of my own?