i think i forgot
what hunger is,
that's not a metaphor.
i've begun to attribute
the wailing in my stomach
to mystery,
to some
unknowable fear.

i used to live atop
nothing,
called myself well.
it was holy,
my sacred duty
to ignore desire.

my body, a cavernous hole,
a self-swallowing maw,
i can grow emptiness that
folds over on itself,
kneads itself heavy-handedly.
i can grow emptiness
that feeds itself,
a self-sustaining culture.