When I write poems, hunger bears down on me;
Nibbling fingernails and ginger snaps barely
Satisfies cravings too cranky for soup.
Scoff down each spicy fragment, kiss-nip each
finger, smile that two years have passed since hand
to mouth thinking required lit cigarettes.
Longing. Constantly. Tiredness and Sleep-
lessness make me eat. At times tea fills holes
left by sorrow, grief, despair and longing.
I try a snack of cheese and pears, feeling
powerlessness in the face of neediness.
Food is essential to revolution.
Come to my house for fuel, I want to say
then fear I won’t be able to divide
loaves and fishes adequately. So don’t.
At all. I attend another prayer
meeting, listen to my stomach growl and
wonder what I am waiting for. But wait.
Hands on knees, I sit in silent worship
in a circle of friends where I don’t speak
my longings. I brought ginger snaps and tea.
Back home, I write a poem while hunger bears
down on me. I bear down on the pen andready new birth, a rebirth beyond words.
Posted for my prompt at Poets United: Midweek Motif ~ Hunger which will be up around 2am Eastern Time.