On Eating and Being Eaten
Layla Zak-Volpato (she/her)
“At the altar of my life, I lay this anthology as an offering to softness, sex, sensitivity, grief and love. Within the last couple of years I’ve experienced a dramatic personal shift towards embracing parts of myself I always felt ashamed of - my propensity to cry often, feel deeply and love hard.
Within this growth there’s been an element of walking forward yet looking back - recognising that as a child I had more wisdom and knowledge about being true to my emotions than I do now. I suppose that’s something about children that is so wonderful yet can be so frustrating for their doting parents - If they feel some way, they’re going to tell you.
There has been a poignant grieving process for my girlhood. I feel really drawn to pull apart these sticky, hot feelings through poetry. There’s a lot of dissonance between the remnants of my child self and the version of me that’s present in romantic relationships - in particular the power imbalance in dynamics of consuming others and being consumed myself. With a meal of soft, sweet, gooey romance there’s always a side dish of erratic behaviour, irresponsible decisions and anxiety.
‘On Eating and Being Eaten’ is a dedication both to myself and the turbulent and sublime experiences that have characterised my early 20s. A prayer and a curse (fist shaken at the sky) and some tender atonement.”
Gayamaygal Land
Siege
I sink my face into her soft belly and take breaths of pet fur and yellow leaves half rotten.
The sweet and floral stench makes me gag, yet, unable to move
I burrow
teeth sinking into ripe geography – I ache
“Suckle!”
Hands reach-
Blinking
Blind
Hungry
Greedy,
Besiege valleys my tongue can’t conquer.
Nosing into the cathedral of my ribs, sound ceases.
Hands claim ripe fistfuls and
rip
The hands are hers and mine.
My belly bitten, hers nuzzled.
I claim the knuckle of the left pinkie finger and she the right thumbnail.
Soft, white, dimpled, ravaged pre-nup.
Friedrichshain Fumble
The cobbles on Berlin streets have rough edges
That catch
Loose heart strings
And unravel
Vintage jumpers
Enmeshing the arcane buildings
Round and round
In blue woollen bondage.
Be careful!
Lest the shoelace of your vintage pumas
Tangles underfoot on rough pavement
And you trip
Face first
Into an embrace
Warm tongue in your mouth (not your own)
Colourful pill
Fizzing beer
Dainty lemon tart.
Make haste!
Through blue dawn
Lifting feet high
Stumble willingly!
Through park
Through bar
Through U-bahn
Through tears
On limebike
Into strange bed.
Yours
Solamente
For tonight
Éclair
At twenty-two I suck on throat lozenges that turn my tongue blue and write love poems and pine.
I’ve got a pretty neck and a fat ass and a nice back. He said he liked my rib cage and the colour of my skin.
Once, my hair was long enough to be wrapped around a fist and pulled.
I sit in crowded bars and she taps me on the shoulder impatiently. I’m restless in my seat and as I squirm the dainty braids she sews into my hair tangle and mat and she whines with frustration.
My date swings out his foot under the table and hits me square on the shin, I breathe in sharply.
She begins to cry.
Time slips by and in my head I’m already twenty-five.
On the street, kids get swung between the arms of two parents and I sit here thinking of all the ways men have told me that I tasted good.
I’m delectable like a pastry in a glass case with a marmalade glaze.
Something I would’ve ogled at as a young girl.
She presses her nose up against the glass.
Has the father of my children already hurried me out of his bedroom in the blue dawn to make an early shift?
Have we already drawn straws over the segments of a mandarin?
When he looks away I put one in my pocket to give to her later.
What will it be like to watch my friends become mothers?
Will they grieve for their personhood?
Will they notice it’s gone? or will it slip away in the middle of the night? fall out of their pocket and disappear down the bathroom drain.
Will I resent the fathers of their children?
Will they turn from friend to antagonist in my narrative?
I want every female friend of mine to be selfish and eat slices of cake with thick, sugary icing. I want them to skinny-dip and get high in their bedrooms.
She wants to braid their hair too and cover their eyelids in blue eye shadow from a palette shaped like a handbag.
The braids in my hair loosen over time.