I am hungry.
We hold our hands up together and create a world.
If I could breathe I would tell you it’s all going to be okay, that
one day this place won’t be imaginary and we will finally feel anchored
and free.
We’ll lounge on pavement, soak up the heat and shuffle bare feet through grass.
The others will be invited and our earth will sponge up the anxiety at our knees
and trees will plant themselves where anger falls.
The ebb and flow of the sky will be comfortable and balanced
and the givers won’t give until they’re empty, the takers won’t take until they’re bloated.
We’ll see each other for what we are,
and we will allow the spaces between us to fill with sand and soft thoughts.
I am hungry for you. For her hands, for his voice, for our goodness and a balance that is no longer delicate, but sure and strong.
I am hungry for hands to hold mine, but not hold me down
because I like to pretend I am free and
not bound to giving up my own hands
when a need rises up from someone else’s ashes.
And you should feel the ground,
it should be steady beneath your legs and you should
hear your pulse and footsteps as real, and alive, as you are in the tiny glimpses I get when you are truly joyful, here and now.
It won’t be a bubble or a prison. There will be a sky,
and a world with us in it.
We won’t be hungry anymore and we will breathe.