Tag Archives: hunger

Ritual

Each morning breaks the same,

Rising with a hunger that carves

Like the slanting fingers of sunlight cutting

Through the fog that shrouds the neighbor’s burnt field.

Through the night, the fog settled deep in the valley

Bleeding dew on the fire-scorched ground;

I reach for coffee, two spoonfuls in the filter

Watch while the black liquid drips into the waiting cup;

The scalding brew stirs the restless throb

I trace the words that tremble on the page and pen the ache–

Read this my Lord— this hunger, this hollowness,

This burnt ground, this empty cup, my song to You.

Hunger

Silence at midnight

When the world is asleep

Except for the geckos, my dog and I,

And the lone plane in the distant black sky.

Fingers reach, stealthily into the box,

Half ashamed, then again, not ashamed.

The telltale rattle, the swift pouring;

I sit. And he sits, beside me, brown, intense and awake

In the sleeping darkness;

Brown ears cocked, eyes trained,

Tail thumping methodically.

We eat together, I from my bowl, and he

The spoonfuls I throw at him.

We share the meal, and the togetherness and aliveness

In an unconscious world.

He does not know the meaning

Of qualitative research and causation and correlation

And grounded theory and phenomenology.

But this he understands.

And oh, yes, so do I.

So do I.

 

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