Freshman 10 first girl in the family to go to college was hungry all year often, for a smoke to put a coat of nicotine over all-nighter pangs of exam panic dry-mouthed too many mornings anonymous in lecture halls following beer-pong night school covetous of customers’ orders waiting tables at the diner consumed by plate envy for syrup-soaked pancakes since the currency of her free meal was sacrificially bartered for calculus tutorials she might have gotten for her dimples and a feigned interest in sci-fi instead, she indulged the same sweet tooth her momma showed for boys with candied flesh no woman could ever bite deep enough to sugarcoat their rinds a binge that left her ravenous to know if that extra weight was freshman 10 or pregnancy pounds then, by finals week, bloated with relief when what she had to swallow next left a mostly hidden scar and a fat-lipped heart TJ Maxx What mom hopes I don’t remember about first-grade hunger: how it gulped down even the lump of fear caused by ketchup sandwich of silence and sirens that last syringe stuck like a straw in her bruised banana flesh. I pretend now that I never slept dreamless on a full belly, plump pillow in a foster family’s home the nights she spent in rehab. My eighth-grade pangs starved family pride: I was the scavenger angel in evangelical service of our lunch lady of the uneaten corn dog nugget, green bean, cooked carrot and fruit cocktail abandoned on trays of friends. At home my brother and I gorged impotently on ramen noodles, eager for mom’s McNugget pay-day miracle. Tenth-grade first job wages: I stuffed my locker and bedside table with red finger-tipped fruits crunch and burn of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos my pocket change tossed in the collection plate for college and a car. Later was never. Now was treating the three of us to fourth meal at Taco Bell until we were sick of it, and I grew too big for hand-me-downs used my employee discount on a larger size. Bumper Crop We harvested a riot in our garden tomatoes bloated after volleys of rain and our temporary decampment on vacation at the lake. Joker-mouthed fruits leaking lifeblood greeted our return. No tasers or rubber bullets could repel fruit fly surge as what we hoped to salvage rotted sweetly. This decomposing regiment of peaceful assembly occupied the sunniest spot for months entwined vines shielding assets behind pungent chainmail. We broke through the lines, captured hundreds cut away their bruises, battle scars to savor victory salads and sandwiches all summer detain nine gallons of boutique sauces seasonal POWs in our freezer. Now we surrender a field deepened by combat soil's soul turned over to red cabbages, kale, pansies not poppies-- nevertheless, haloed ground demands a mottled moment of silence for Yemen, Syria and the Congo, whose children might for peace in which to gather tomatoes like these fight insects to the death eat not around bruised fruit, but through it, suck in bloody juice, swallow bitter seeds. Laura Stewart Webb is a keen and grateful member of the Southern Maryland community of poets who gather together to participate in workshops, open mics, and the joy and mystery of being human. Laura writes on many topics but often returns to themes inspired by her work as a community educator in behavioral health. Laura lives with an Irish Wolfhound named Fintan who has not given up trying to teach her everything he knows.
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Hunger-focused Poems by Maryland PoetsCreation of this section and publishing the works of Maryland poets was supported by the Maryland State Arts Council. Archives
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