Living like I did,
eating what I could,
a can of beans, a loaf of bread,
I came to know
that hawks are hawks
out of hunger and the crickets
chirp in August out of lust.
I turn on a lamp
only for reasons of dark.
Midday and the moon
call me. Love, my love,
moves that way,
Chopin nocturne in the bayou
of my heart for you,
who makes me see
I’m no hunger monger.
The slow drip of the faucet
is a sign, a waking,
and paint enough
to cover in white
the walls of my wanting.
Fiction - ISSUE #28