Hunger Below the World SOPHIA HABER
At the bottom of the canyon I dream of flowers, I dream of yellow-studded daisies and browneyed sunflowers dipping their necks into honey, but I do not dream of orchids who are manicured. I dream of poppies and marigolds bursting into stars and Cassiopeia unsticking herself from the sky to tell me the secret I always wanted to hear: come hither, come closer, necks intertwining like Matisse’s girls. In my sleeping bag I touch my belly button and feel the gash, reminder that once I was a full Platonic person. But here we are far away from the blush of blood in bathtubs and yolky breakfast omelets and the profusion of accompanying imagery so instead I imagine that the gash in my stomach connects to a globe of untouchable sunlight always inside me, and also outside, like dreams. When I was a little girl I would sit before the mirror for days until my skin stuck to the surface, and soon enough I was a sheath of bones, soft hairs covering me like animal protection, the absence of desert flowers the least of my incomplete concerns. And I really did love it, the gilding of gold on my skin, the blue veins like water rivulets in a wasteland, the lust of an inflexible god. Under the world I remember her, and then I let her go. agave review • 25
