The pull before you give it a name. What the body has been wanting while you negotiated with it.

Hunger

Late spring opens an appetite. This week we name what we want, without polishing it, without apologizing, and notice what we have been calling by other names.

Each face in the street is a slice of bread
wandering on
searching

somewhere in the light the true hunger
appears to be passing them by
they clutch

have they forgotten the pale caves
they dreamed of hiding in
their own caves
full of the waiting of their footprints
hung with the hollow marks of their groping
full of their sleep and their hiding

have they forgotten the ragged tunnels
they dreamed of following in out of the light
to hear step after step

the heart of bread
to be sustained by its dark breath
and emerge

to find themselves alone
before a wheat field
raising its radiance to the moon

Bread

Each face in the street is a slice of bread
wandering on
searching

What is starting to want in me?

A life that does not feel borrowed.
A room that feels like mine even when I’m alone in it.
The version of me that writes again without fearing it won’t be good enough.

I think something in me is starving for softness.
For honesty.
For people who do not make me shrink to fit beside them.

And maybe that hunger is not ugly.
Maybe it’s proof I’m still alive enough to want things at all.