M.A. Scott

[Hunger, little sister]

Hunger, little sister, somehow one of us wants so much and the other knows when to shake her head, no. Is it just that the eldest is trained to open wide—to anticipate the rubber-tipped sterling spoon, helicoptering sustenance? I never knew what we were missing until I worked checkout: cartons of hand squeezed juice, boneless everything. Sometimes someone who has lived with an active alcoholic can develop their own addiction to carbs. Every slice of bread is a crumb-trail back to where we’ve been. Kool-Aid, tinned corned beef, cheap cuts coated in stale Cornflakes. I know foods with more life-force would strengthen my elemental powers, and yet, this morning I ate Thin Mints for breakfast. I think of the poet who swallowed a smooth clear quartz to receive its transmission into their body. Can reading a poem aloud substitute for putting something in one’s mouth? Last night I dreamt of a banquet where all the plates had eyes. This afternoon, I ate a chicken sandwich, outdoors, watching a robin in my mulberry tree. In other words, I ate a bird in front of a bird.

M.A. says, this is an easy one. Bass clarinet has the suitable swing for anything from Rite of Spring to incidental music to The Munsters.

In our dream band, on bass clarinet:

M.A. Scott’s work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Sugar House Review, Miracle Monocle, The McNeese Review, Moon City Review, and Dream Pop Journal. She grew up in Rhode Island and currently lives in New York’s Hudson Valley where she likes to spend time with trees. You can follow her on Instagram @whythedoily

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