Hungry, Hungry Thing

Would that I grow the tiger’s fur over my skin,

skin that believes itself to be fully alive,

that believe so fervently, the flesh adopt a

second mind that leads towards eighth insanity

that no longer does the chest seek, in tiger’s tail,

the meaning of a poet’s lines, but in its jaw

its own jaw, forget its head is its own head and

sink its teeth into the bed, trying to consume

itself to know it has not lost humanity

I would then call myself the hungry, hungry thing

that does not know itself and thus calls itself “it”

I throw myself into this new identity:

the tiger, inside out, to taste its humanness,

as we all know, flesh is flesh even under fur.