starving southwards

At sundown, we begin
strapping leather belts to empty
stomachs. Crucify ourselves
against hunger, restraining growls.
Here, we are our own beasts. Here,
the wheat bleeds gold. Cotton
cries shrieks of silver. Even the rivers
flood with bronze and guilt. In August,
I gather sunflowers. Dust broken windows
with their leaves. Boil severed heads
to serve with butter. Behind silent pews,
my skin reeks of bloody harvests.
The dirt lodges itself between my teeth.
I choke on unborn soil. This must be
what salvation tastes like.

Saturn Browne

Saturn Browne (she/they) is thinking about their lost rings and those who might’ve stolen them. They can be found in squash courts, antique shops, and buildings full of ghosts. She tweets @saturnhas9rings, and her website is
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