Submissions by gOldF1nch (Bastet)

The smoldering nights
switch clothes and crowns with golden
stalks ripe for harvest.

Sometimes I wonder about that story
of stone soup,
where people are duped into
sharing their food with an old lady
who says she can make a pot of soup from
nothing.

We are all that old lady in a way,
pressing strangers and siblings
and friends in our circle
to give up parts of themselves

integrating them into the gaps
we perceive but have no idea
what to do with. How much
definition is necessary, or more like
how much of all the MEs out there
are just filched pieces
of someone else?

Hungered, I gnaw
on denuded ribs
for support

stingy echoes lie
as they plunk off empty walls,
a begging bowl of cravings.

I will never be full.

On the X- ray
tiny bones fan out
like ghostly vermicelli.

I wonder if reptiles are
ticklish?