I
The summer was hungry
and so was I, thirteen
with the tymbal trill of cicadas
in final molt and imaginary
boyfriends I kissed behind
the shed. There were things
I wanted: whispers of tell me
a folktale inside a McDonald’s
while I gnawed on chicken nuggets.
Sprite I would later pour
onto black-eyed Susans.
I knew they craved
the same things I did,
but what else was left
for me to cut my teeth on?
II
There was a boy with a red
truck and unkind hands,
and all the black-eyed
Susans were dead. My mother
told me she would grow
a new husband instead.
At 16, I couldn’t imagine
kneeling in dirt to grow
a man like a tomato plant.
All I had was a watering can
dented and rusting. What if
he didn’t want to be watered?
When I opened my mouth,
all I could taste was dust.
All I could taste was stone.
III
By 19, college taught me
that Erisychthon was cool.
What I mean is I hadn’t yet
eaten enough of myself.
All the men I tried to grow
sprouted from the soil
already wilted or dressed
in disease. It’s a funny thing,
craving what you can’t have.
Even the black-eyed
Susans refused to open,
so I laid my own body
out on the table, answering
the whispers of devour me,
dear girl. Devour me.
Taylor Hamann Los
Taylor Hamann Los is an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared in Parentheses Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Split Rock Review, among others. She lives with her husband and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos) and Instagram (taylorhlos_poetry) or at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.
Portage Magazine 