Colorado State University Center for Literary Publishing

Excerpt from We Are Starved

We Are Starved

Always blood and those who give of it so freely. 

The hemophiliac, the martyr.

The meatpacking plant at the end of the street.

Piles of ice dumped out back, soaked with the blood of deer,
	 their hind legs broken, stabbed through, hung to drain. 

And the children, always the children. 

Gathering the ice into small handfuls, licking it as one would
	 a snow cone. 

We did this because we loved the deer.

We wanted, somehow, to tell it. 

Our mouths full of salt and a senseless speaking. 

We thought this was how you brought back the dead. 

We thought you would believe us.



This Plenty, This Never Enough

Ravaging your pear tree.

Not for hunger nor poverty,
but to do wrong,

to perish.

To want things
is a kind of sadness,
a sickness—

for had I loved the pears I stole—

But I did not and would
not eat them.

You beg me to stay.

It is harrowing
to watch. A hunger

and so close to ruin.

No love
deserves the death
it has, you say.

But when I find the fruit
in the dumpster behind
your apartment,

I eat it.

There is nothing left, nothing
I will not do.

It wasn’t a meal, you say,
it was my heart.

Is it good, friend?

It was foul but I loved it.





The blackbird he feeds from a pomegranate in his hand.

The red suffering it rushes to, it dies from.

Seven seeds and then their bursting forth.

My brother and I looking for another animal to somehow extinguish.

The way we recognized the ache of the world and our place within it.

That we must leave and return and leave again.

That we must sing.

Our red song.

Our always resurrection.


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