Hunger

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Chewy, papery strips,
lemon-scented
dandruffy bits of you,
round and round
where uncommon people meet,
bushels of whiskers graze unsuspecting palms.

You’ve found a niche,
pressing and imprinting
muddy fingers against my womb.
Your wails scratch
much like your caresses.

Oh, damn you.

Nostrils, nose flaps,
open nose flaps.
You’ve poured yourself
into hair-lined tubes of air.

Does it feel good –
crashing,
impregnating me with an urge
to sink my canines
into your quivering flesh
till it spouts amorous liquids,
like your blood pumper?