Feeding

She held the sapling
while he fixed the soil and watered it
the pail tilted
the water pouring out silver
the children’s joined breath
fanning the tiny plant.

This, even in this red soil
acrid air from gunfire
sleep gone like everything soft.

See the sapling listening to the soil
tears connecting each to each.
This is how to quieten
hunger gnawing us.
This is how we connect
one to one,
plant, soil, water, air
our glue.

Myth of Scarcity

Driving down Pond Path to deliver vegetable rice
to the soup kitchen, I feel light, awake, spurred by service.
My plate is always full of to-do’s, my feet
keeping up with wants and needs.

I can’t sleep, aware of terror wreaked by governments
on helpless people. The desert does not offer much,
but it does deliver the glory of olives.
When tanks bulldoze the trees, salt in the air and water
dries up life. The sun blazes down, birds vanish.

Workers persist, cooking rice in huge vats,
stirring thin broth, scooping meager portions
into bowls held through gaps in a fence,
filling a manufactured lack.

An ocean away, my plate is full. But hearts filled with scarcity
thrive on the deadly. Only wilderness where hearts
leave their habitat. The mind only knows what the heart tells it.
Can you teach the heart to walk the path of care,
so it teaches the mind to send its sparks to the world?

Mouthing God

I love the word seed
in Sanskrit—beej.

I roll it in my mouth:
It travels from my pursed

lips to stop short
of the roof.

My tongue barely holds
it before it vanishes.

Seeds are magical;
created from

an original
how they sprout

an entire pantry
to feed a world.

This sound I
pronounce

is the first sound

that holds millions

of facsimiles,
multiverses, theories.

It feeds its singular syllable
to this frivolous verse.

First published in Long Island Sound Anthology, 2009.

What the Food Stamp Sees

Honey, I know you’re hungry.
You think I don’t hear your stomach growl,
even from the depths of your bag?
I see the way you look through the windows
of the fancy restaurant, plates piled high
with half-eaten meals you could only dream of.

I know I don’t hold much promise--
a bag of rice, some milk, perhaps
a fresh head of cabbage and some apples--
just enough to quiet the echoes
that rumble through you.

But who am I, a mere piece of paper,
to tell you how you feel?
The fear, the shame. I see it in your eyes
and the way your spine collapses
when you pull me out.

​I can only tell you
what you already must know.
That I am merely a band-aid
when you deserve so much more.

Hunger
​
A stomach whole negates a stomach hole
Why me and not you?
Food is everywhere but not for everyone
Stop this madness—this perpetual, persistent, purposeful inequity
Share the abundance among us!

Starving in Suburbia.

She snaps the card through the reader, hiding it like a scarlet letter
The card scanner emits a rude little buzz.
Everyone knows what that sound means.
The woman glances around apologetically.

I remember how my mom smoked and drank milky tea.
I smoked, too, and pretended to diet at school
So, no one questioned why I never ate lunch.
We ignored the fact that the fridge held just half-n-half.

The cashier patiently explains that SNAP won’t cover tampons or pads.
The woman nods and puts them aside.
Will the woman make it a virtue? She looks like the hippy, crunchy-mom type.
Cloth pads are both sustainable and in vogue.

Years ago, before it was chic, I sewed my own pads.
I bought used flannel sheets from Goodwill.
I called it environmentalism rather than poverty.
Sometimes, dignity is in the stories we tell.

The cart’s contents mark the woman as “new money-less.”
Veterans of this life know better than to buy fresh vegetables.
They need to be prepared. They’re not shelf-stable.
She has name-brand yogurt and organic milk.

For my mom and I, it was a secret so deep,
We never spoke of it even to each other.
I learned to pocket the crackers and condiments at Denny’s
When I had two dollars for coffee.

Behind me in line, I hear grumbles.
The woman puts more food in the cannot-afford pile.
It is a familiar move to me, but she hesitates, confused and unsure.
The most expensive food is the most nutritious.

I remember how I passed food stamps to cashiers like a drug deal.
Otherwise, some do-gooder would chip in “helpful advice.”
Explaining how food on a budget was “not that hard.”
My every choice the wrong one.

The woman’s mouth hardens as she glances at her little girl.
She puts back the box of cookies, keeping the apples.
It’s still not enough. She hesitates over the almond butter.
Instead, she puts back the chicken.

We pretended our bread and jam suppers were just a quirk,
A throwback to my mom’s childhood.
My soft, famine-adapted frame melted,
Collar bones jutting sharply, visible when I wore T-shirts.

I look at the total on the display. It is pitifully small.
“Oh, hey,” I say, pretending to be casual, unbothered.
Pretending that my heart was not overcome with vicarious shame,
I make eye contact with the cashier. “I got this.”

The school counselor pulled me aside,
“You lost so much weight. How did you do it?”
Easy, I had to pay for gas.
The counselor talked about eating disorders and asked if I was depressed.

The cashier’s eyes light up, meeting my gaze.
I know it hurts her to see this, all day every day.
She would let everyone have their food free if she could.
“Great!” Her tone is light. Pretending like me.

I remember my counselor’s eyes were as kind as the cashier’s.
I frequently got passes to see her for little chats.
I knew better than to speak of why I was depressed.
And I was more interested in eating the M&M’s on her desk.

The woman turns. Takes in my blazer and heels.
“That’s really nice of you,” she mutters, looking away
“No worries!” I speak too loudly, my stomach flip-flopping.
In my imagination, my current self is saving my past self.

​I hand the cannot-afford items to the cashier to bag. No filet mignon here.
Fresh fruit and veg and just a few scant treats.
Now, the mom has tears in her eyes and the scanner chimes.
Across the street, the food pantry has a line around the corner.

soundbites while waiting

I am waiting for fresh
green, chickpeas
to be delivered straight
to my door. And as I wait,
like all mornings,
I log onto IG and there it is–
there she is     the sound of Bisan’s voice
                breaking.

And this time she doesn’t say what day it is, or that
she is still alive, but somewhere in the breaking
you hear ...and the only way they can get food

is to wait for food. And they–
fathers and sons–
have slept on the streets for weeks
                waiting. And I hear her say,
At 4AM, someflours, and I swear I thought I heard her say
                sunflowers,
you heard it, too, right? I place      my ear
closer to her voice, closer to my phone, and
                desperately
I am searching for
                these loudly-yellow 4AM blooms
but instead, chills running bone-deep, she is saying
some flours,      blood mixed      with some flour
                and my doorbell rings.

At 4AM in NYC,
you can find me on the floor
                waiting
for my small hands to shell a pound of chickpeas.
You wouldn’t know this until you
                break apart the green, but
it smells of sunflowers
                                                                freshly cut,
and you can hear sounds from Apt 19 of
                someone
                                ​quietly      breaking.

This poem first appeared in Wild Greens.
​
Click to hear the poet read the poem.