Mama,
the weather outside
speaks hunger.

The air whispers
in chipped syllables,
cradling my bloated stomach,
muffling the laughter
emerging from K street.

Pine trees, brittled
by their barren limbs,
hum to me their
creaking lullabies.

I've seen the sun,
cheeks fat with food,
spit golden scraps
I was never
entitled to.

Perhaps the air
can carry me
through the winter.
Perhaps then
I can finally
dream of feasts.