My belly roars like a trapped lion.
It churns and mutters, twisting on itself.
There is no food, the desert is barren.
There is only me.

I start at the toes.
Babies stick their feet in their mouths,
doubling up, but it's harder for
a grown man's dimensions.
The toes come off fairly easily, and I take
the rest of my feet in careful,
painful
bites, and wish I had some way to roast
them, to cook the meat, more palatable
for my tongue.

Veins stick between my teeth. Tendons that feel
Like raw noodles.

I try to eat more quickly after that,
racing the rush of blood to fill my belly
before I die. Maybe the hunger pangs
won't follow me to death, then.

I rend my arms, and think of the wings of foul
I've killed, and the thick sides of ribs on fat cattle.
The last herd went down my gullet a week ago. Now
there is only me, and that is disappearing at a rapid pace.


Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Lanosian, in the year 227 MA.