a hungry ghost offers you a recipe

A HUNGRY GHOST OFFERS YOU A RECIPE

by C. B. Blanchard

Content Warnings: hunger, starvation, death, sex references, violence (mentioned)

I miss the salad I sometimes made for lunch. 

• • • • • • • Cherry tomatoes, sweet-sharp and rich, 
            • black olive umami cling. 
            • Feta, fresh salt crumbling; 

All together on my tongue, taste and texture. Use

• • • • • • • shallots 

because onions overwhelm it. Cut them fine as you can. I took this 

for granted as you do now.

Here there are no tomatoes. 

A fruit grows bright on the tree and you pluck it but when you bite

the inside is full of wet 

sawdust. It will not come off my tongue. 

It coats it.                     I would rather coat my tongue in 

• • • • • • • honey 
            • lemon juice
            • your wetness 
            • your                                             insides.

I would have that too.

I miss the sweet and the sharp.                     I

miss the friction of 

warm skin under my palms. 

• • • • • • • Chorizo
              (frying in the pan and 

sounds of pleasure) 

• • • • • • • olive oil 

and other more 

human                           tastes. 

I miss fucking. 

Everything here is                    grey dust                     I am a 

bog body,                   hard 

and withered,            my stomach empty, my fingers leather. 

My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut, ha ha. 

My throat has been cut.

 I used to grow salad leaves in tubs on my balcony. 

Have you ever eaten 

• • • • • • • sorrel? 

It is bitter so use it sparingly. I would cram my mouth with sorrel

only to have something to taste.

• • • • • • • Rosemary         :         for remembrance

and 

• • • • • • • Rue means regret. 

It tastes a bit like mint, rue or regret.         I forget which.

My tongue is dead skin. It

         flakes away behind my teeth. 

Are the lilacs blooming where you are? Is someone frying garlic? Is there bread, freshly baked, the crust crackling? 

You reach out to the dead like it is a game, you, you with your 

  bright thread of heartbeat, you who just eats without knowing. 

You call on me with my 

grit-dust 

mouth

and my                                                                  empty belly. You do 

not know what I have                                         lost.

 You wave

 what I cannot

have                in front of me                with the easy

innocent                          cruelty

of the                   living.

There is a satsuma in your fruit bowl. Let me have it.

Please, I say. Please. 

I say - Please, I am so hungry. 

I am so hungry. I am so 

hungry.