BEYOND HUNGER

You hate the feeling of looking over your shoulder,
but then there I am. How about this:
I'm the younger brother, the one recklessand beautiful, who tipped the speedometer toward red,
and now returns after years of quiet with an itchy
trigger finger and the insistent promise that this is it, the last scam, the last chance for us both to cash in.
As soon as the porch door clicks shut behind me, you know only trouble can come from my hunched but vibrant silhouette.

Or how about this one: I'm your bleached-blond ex-lover,
who split for beauty school and Hollywood a life-time ago,
but now comes back, oily and sensuous, barely coiledinside my red satin dress. That's the one where
the sweat on your forehead matches your internal landscape,
your constant state of indecision, until in a burst of fatal passion
you thrust me across the card table, spilling
drinks and religious icons, giving yourself up
to the kind of love that always spells death.

Some say I’m beyond hunger. What do you think?