Every spring, I wonder how the worms
survive the frost. Surely, the red-breasted robins need
to feed in order to sing the way they do. a lullaby for the hunger,
for a mother following her children through window pleats
of sunlight. a jumble of feet pushing chlorinated goodbyes against a neighborhood
pool’s tiles. A well of pesto in my morning toast steals its way down in
coruscating rivulets running through my fingers. A common thief’s treasure
for the taking. What, asks the internet, is a Saint? This is where
our knowledge diverges. What, asks my father, do you have left
to lose?
That week I spent with you under the concave
belly of a church’s rafters. We played that one
word game on your phone & avoided the eyes of God which is to say
the elderly lady in apartment A206, clanging her keys
across the hallway & turning her back every time you
come over. asking me, Gonna settle down with a nice boy soon,
honey? as if through the apartment wall I hadn’t been
reading a Siken poem to you & watching your chest
rise and fall. Watching is the same as consumption,
someone once told me, but I had to choke
out your name, all bone-splintered & fractured marrow
to watch you come running. Forgive me, for to name something is
to lay claim to it. Forgive me, for I cannot help but want your
white-hot brand on my skin.
In another universe, I am something more
than a hunger. I devour buttered bread in the morning
& your laughs in the checkout lane. In another universe,
none of my words are holy
because I spend all my love recklessly at the cashiers instead of
turning it into grimy pocket change. In another universe,
I am something more than how the hours keep on
beating out a tempo with his mistress’ back
against the wall. I am something
more than this belly full of
want. In another universe
I’m so hungry for it, baby.
Editors: Alisha B., Blenda Y., Luna Y.