My thighs are cold in the crevice
where the Coke can rested
as I drove. By the mailboxes
the ginger guy is staring again
his back against
my box, meat-pie
upon the middle distance
at me, like I expect.
I disembark and seek out shadow,
walking in my skin-shoes where the pavement
is the darkest, where
my flesh won't burn. I'm white,
white, white – invisible
as ghost – the sidewalk of my hips
untrodden by their fingertips. A sunburned
I know summer from the sticky
pools of ice-cream melting in the eyes
of children, from the stink of burning
flesh on barbeques.
A guy walks past with a fresh
tattoo: the Southern Cross all slick
with blood and fluid,
in Glad Wrap
like a lump
I salivate. I sink
my teeth into his arm.
I am so hungry.