All mouth
stomach 
      and thigh,

nothing more

than a memory:
the snap of salt 
on a lover’s neck, 
finger gaps 
             scalloped ribs,
tender crevasses 
to taste and tease.   

A body needs 
to be fed: bread,
water, skin upon skin, 
nails trailing hair line
from breastbone to belly. 

It is the monster
who never gets enough.
the saint who starves
their appetite until its
time for communion,
blood and flesh, 
            transfiguration.
Never mind the gasps
at how quickly you change 
shape in the dark when 
you take your fill.
It’s all a trick 
of the eye, some say,
as you grow and grow. 

Nancy Hightower has been published in The New York Quarterly, Spry, Heavy Feather Review, storySouth, Gargoyle, Sundog Lit, and Joyland. Her first collection of poetry, The Acolyte, was published in 2015 by Port Yonder Press.