Syringe-thin men with bloody eyes
line up for the empty soup kitchens.
As usual the lies are true:
houses, in famine time, spit out children.
Tables are turned, and stingy
mothers forget birth pangs,
instead nurture hunger
pains. While fathers grind gritty air
between their teeth, wish for a bone to bury
and savor beyond the gnawing
gazes of starving children.
Everyone has a program to run
on an empty stomach:
think of somebody else to sell.
Think of tears boiling in the pot;
they evaporate and steam the bony meat
and stony bread for you alone.
Think of what you want. Listen to your stomach growl.
Worship it.
Think of somebody with a trusting heart
to lead and lose in the forest.
One less mouth to feed.
Think of the food she or he will not use.
We are all children with no more breadcrumbs.
Wandering between thorn-headed trees.
We were hungry. We ate what little we had.
We lost the light. We cannot find our way out.
Our mother is the witch who wants to eat us.
Our father is the one who waits to burn us in his oven.
Angela Jackson
And All These Roads Be Luminous, copyright 1998 TriQuarterly Books. Used with permission of the author.
