my grandpa packs the dishwasher
because my nan doesn’t like to.

my brother cuts the chicken
because his wife hates the texture.

and i read my students poems
with the same reverence that my teacher read mine.

and i've noticed this all around,
all of these humans being human.

people picking up  
each others lost and littered items.

offering a listening ear
and a wise word or two.

bringing things to homes
as a gift and a 'thank you' for hosting.

still making tea in unfamiliar kitchens
and putting friends’ children to sleep.

still holding things for each other
when hands are too full.

still doing life together,
like plants that share the same soil

facing each other, like sunflowers,
on days when the world is more shade.

giving flowers and heart shaped petals.
still celebrating, and singing songs.

so despite all of the suffering
scattered and dispersed in the world,

there are alters to love everywhere,
and people are still worshipping.

it's like a fog that creeps in very quietly.
a smoke that climbs up the walls like greedy vines
takes over the whole room beat by beat
it licks at my feet and in the next second it nips at my neck,
seizes up around my throat,
gets its way in:
it's hunger.
it's pure, raw, bare and violent hunger.
cravings that tear and scream at my fingers
true desire that claws its way up my thighs,
leaves harsh marks and bruises.

it's knocking at my brain, these thoughts
thoughts so red, like thick blood dripping through my lips,
thoughts of those eyes of yours,
that look you give
when you know it's me,
that i am the one for your fire
and you are my smoke.

it's something i want to taste more than the forbidden apple:
(i put that to shame,
i make the serpent jealous)
my hunger is so vicious,
it blocks my vision and numbs my conscience.
it is so true it is an explosion,
a burst of stars and little flames,
that ignores the entirety of time and space,
flows through it so fast it feels slow,
and i get lost in it, i turn drunk and hazy-eyed.
it is everything i need;

and if this smoke suffocates me, then so be it:
my lungs will say praise nonetheless,
they'll worship their own killer
without a hint of shame.