Fasting Years How is it days are heavier than years? I want to eat a crate of apricots. I want to drain a dozen coffeepots. I want a cake with twenty-seven tiers. A peach. A pear. A starfruit and a plum. A munificence of honey, fruit, and wine, And watermelons straight from off the vine. You may preach patience till your throat goes numb. Each crumb I lose to these my fasting years I count and crave. Preach, friend, but even still— Though feasts await, and drinks, and many rooms, Though angels stoop and heaven interferes— My empty stomach turns, as stomachs will, Inward on itself, and it consumes.
My Hair Smoke stacks, windows, sunlight poised to fall and cast my silhouette upon the wall. I wonder that my hair is not let down. Is it not fine and fragrant, soft and brown? The light reveals a hint or two of red. I’m always pinning it against my head. I let it fly as often as I dare. I want to set a primrose in my hair, but I am full of motion, pull and pitch. Time is a brute. Inertia is a bitch. I must be cool. I must be practical. I must drive bobby pins into my skull.
Faith Thompson’s work has been published in Juxtaprose Magazine, IDK Magazine, Alba, The Road Not Taken, Mezzo Cammin, and Measure Review. She received her MFA at Georgia College & State University. She lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and works as a nanny.