Nasreen Khan


I am getting fat
in the breadbasket of the world.

I am growing sluggish here
and I lift my head
bovine and ruminant, chewing the same
as every other cocksucker out there. 

The white scars of my brown skin fading into let’s all get along
post-colonial complacency
fading, like
the memory of Hunger.

How have I forgotten to stay hungry?

I came from hungry
parents, who were birthed from hungry parents, who
had hungry parents, who climbed up out of
a hungry earth, who was spat from  

the cunt of a
hungry god
who is a hungry woman

with the lust of famine in her eyes
and ribs protruding below her low, big-nippled breasts,
who never died on a cross but lives and lives and lives
on the edge of sacred starvation
forever and ever


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