Mine has wings like a moth
fluttering against the shell of a fruit at
nightfall
Shedding dust into nectar, spilling juices
into soil
To turn to fruit again
Yours beat, acid-laden, life
a falcon
Scouring the stillness
the emptiness
of a desert
Searching,
nothing
Trying not to fall from the sky
My hunger is not the same
as your hunger
For me, it’s chocolate biscuits lasting
longer in the cupboard
rhubarb-stained fingers
tracing a recipe
the other hand pinching butter into flour
For me, it’s a family dinner
prepared in a warm kitchen
a blessed iftar
For you, it’s the sharp ledge of your
ribs
the spaces between them deepening like
the shelves of a bare pantry
a fast that goes beyond dusks and
dawns
My hunger
is not like yours
My hunger is a pause
it’s treading lightly under the arc of the
sun
it’s bracing between new moons
it’s moving politely through mealtimes
it’s too easily resolved
Yours is a long day
Every day
anchoring you to the ground
clustering in your belly, clinging to your
bones
heavy in your ears
My hunger is a little pang, a little
bridge. A tiny task
I need only say no
to the things I don’t need
I need only say thanks
for the things that I have
as all little things, my hunger grows
into something bigger
an intention, an invitation
a prayer
a promise
a change, a chance
To one day
sup with you
(written during the month of Ramadan 2020)