Helen Pruitt Wallace St. Petersburg (Gianna Russo)
To Imagine Hunger any kind, of which we knew little, lucky as we were in our childhood. Hunger is... a wound, a lost child... faint smell of a father’s cigar—no— the red tip of it...sun snaking through plains, jagged rocks, or maybe just their scales, that brittle lichen lacing up, flaking? A pause in the angle of a wrist becomes a white anthurium tossed (in a gesture of grief?) there, by the side of a road. I remember the ache of that road. I watched it for hours back then: dust kicking up in certain light, a tinge--of what was it—hunger? Did it go by the name of desire? That mad press of tires, that contact.... Originally published in Harvard Review |
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