Hunger Below the World
Sophia Chanin

At the bottom of the canyon I dream of flowers,
I dream of yellow-studded daisies and brown-

eyed sunflowers dipping their necks into honey,
but I do not dream of orchids who are manicured.

I dream of poppies and marigolds bursting into stars
and Cassiopeia unsticking herself from the sky to

tell me the secret I always wanted to hear: come
hither, come closer, necks intertwining like Matisse’s

girls. In my sleeping bag I touch my belly button and
feel the gash, reminder that once I was a full Platonic

person. But here we are far away from the blush of
blood in bathtubs and yolky breakfast omelets and the

profusion of accompanying imagery so instead I imagine that
the gash in my stomach connects to a globe of

untouchable sunlight always inside me, and also
outside, like dreams. When I was a little girl I would

sit before the mirror for days until my skin stuck
to the surface, and soon enough I was a sheath of

bones, soft hairs covering me like animal
protection, the absence of desert flowers the least

of my incomplete concerns. And I really did love it,
the gilding of gold on my skin, the blue veins like
​
water rivulets in a wasteland, the lust of an inflexible god.
Under the world I remember her, and then I let her go.

Sophia Chanin enjoys hiking, poetry, and obscure German cinema.
(Pomona College '23)