by Lauren Peat

Hunger has no form, no quality,
not like you thought. Only feeds
on the forms it’s borne in.

Only words it speaks
step through, step through; the only cure
not through but back.

Cul-de-sac, bottom of a sack.
Hand pushing through scarceness
until it pierces the burlap.

With time the sack
can be mended; with time
it will carry again. But then the hand

that lost so much time
to the formless
must form a script, a type:

            DO NOT ENTER,
            NOT A THRU STREET

for all the hands who,
searching for a way out,
would turn in.

Lauren Peat was raised on both sides of the Atlantic. Her poems and translations have been published by The Puritan, Asymptote’s “Translation Tuesday,” Broadstone Books, and elsewhere. She frequently collaborates with the composer Katerina Gimon, and her writing, in both English and French, is featured in the repertoire of acclaimed vocal ensembles across Canada. She currently lives in Ontario. 

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