The Stomach is the Origin of All Ghosts
hunger is just an iteration of loss,
another way desire stains the gut:
basest yearning for hands that hold
& feed us in this life—what we
are afraid is the shortest of brevities,
the longest of solitudes. how to chew
when we are barred from abundances
meant for all but hoarded by some.
plenty
is the opposite of death. when you run
your tongue across dripping gums, it’s because
you wonder what it’s like to have a full belly.
somewhere, in the shadowdinge under
a highway ramp, someone who looks like
your granddad lies asleep, stomach a cave
in the muck, in the stench of a city both empty
& redolent of death. maybe, as a boy, he picked
a sprig of dandelions from a meadow reminiscent
of childhood fields—gifted it to his mama.
maybe she fed him rice & fish—such bounty
when in a different country. once,
before bed, he saw out of the corner
of his eye the silhouette of his own dead lolo,
waving goodbye. goodbye! goodbye—
& when the boy flew with no one across
the watery globe, he lost his stomach
somewhere halfway, turned into empty.
goodbye, mountain fogs. goodbye, fish & rice.
no more cousins whooping during dances,
no more of the woven red & black cloths
hung by papa around the house. yesterday’s man,
once as fire, lantern strung up on a rope,
beckoning family home—yesterday’s man
always hungry for. maybe, one day, he’ll magic
his gut back in place—organ embering as it slips
home between intestines, into ivory curve of rib.
***
Author photograph by Sass Art
