I am a round-bellied 

black hole of a man, 

orbiting through 

peppered cosmos 

and salt-splattered stars, 

infinite feast to infinite feast.

 

I eat comet kababs 

on satellite sticks, 

square cuts of moon on crackers, and planets in a blanket, 

and I am never full. 

​

This body is hunger. 

It is wide mouth, 

churning gut, 

gravity. 

It is 

step closer 

and you will see. 

​

And you will see, 

eventually, 

my hopeless shape on the horizon, sucking the spark 

out of every light 

in the sky.

 

And you will hear 

my stomach growing 

like the red-hot ascent of a rocket. 

​

And you will smell 

my bloodlust 

and taste your brother’s fear. 

​

And as the sun sets upwards

and the darkness pulls you in,

you will feel like finger food.