All these times I haven’t fed myself
when I needed to,
all this food denied
like there were no loads of bread
running from truck to gutter
in Austria or anywhere else
I haven’t been
’cause I was a ghost in those places
blown by wind and filled
with hunger.

Had you cracked me open like a hot chestnut
– with your gloves taken out and
the tip of your fingers reddened –
you’d have found a sweet,
sweet void,
repeating softly – or would it be the wind?
-, « She is empty.
She needs to be filled. »

You didn’t get that
but I did.

All these times I have fed more than myself
when anything else was needed,
all this space denied
like there were no loaves of flesh
running from bones to mouth
– or was it the other way around
too? –
in France and everywhere else
I have been
with the same body, unaware of the place
it had blown itself to
filled with
fleeting pastries.

Even you couldn’t open me up like a jar
of chestnut cream
with your slow hands all over and
your jaw all tense –
otherwise you’d have found a half-empty
with trails left by a knife on the sides.

« She’s emptying it out.
The sweetness of life. »

Yes, I once used a knife
but I got it anyway.

I once reached rock bottom
in a jar of spread
labeled with my fake room number
locked in a pantry high
in the basement low
in the city among all cities,
I once reached a hint of myself
down there
but it took time.

After all this time I got fed up with
needing not to need,
denying denying.
Like pouring sugar in a gutter
would make its contents edible,
like coating my life with cream
would make things possible.

I have been
to many places but now I want to go
for real, blown by my hunger,
with stomach open wide.

*Written for dVerse Poets Pub.*