Hunger

We walked in the dark until we heard
bluegills lapping against the cattails.

When I say this, I mean birth. I mean birth
when I say we collapsed into ourselves,

only humidity and fireflies came out
when we opened our mouths.

I mean birth when I say the iridescent
green slime overgrew the pond’s edge,

rooted us into the earth. When I say birth,
I mean horses and horses at the gate

and dust-bathed horses, trembling
clouds of them in the dark field.

When I say horses, I mean there’s a certain
low-slung sorrow I wade in,

my swept-up skirt’s hem seeping,
wet-rimmed. In me, the hollow

where last summer the last clutch
of eggs was laid, and now ghosts remain.