Hunger: A zuihitsu
How long does the heart hold in its knotted-up angers? Five bitter knobs of green plum
on a plate, to dip in salt.
The taste of glutamates and nucleotides. In other words, what’s savory stands
out from a background— gash of seawater in a runnel of sand.
Chilled water in a metal cup. The white flesh of a coconut, young flag swirling to
What is the condition of wanting something you have no name for yet? I scanned the
grocery store shelves, the produce bins— and registered only the color green.
My love dropped a rind, a disc of volatile oils, into the broth. Far away, a hundred
mouths opened in an orchard awash with amber.
Some days, I feel as though I skim only the surface. There are so many things to mend,
to read, to wash, to pay.
I stacked loose granite slates against the rotted wood of the shed. Before they took
them away, the animals had made a bed in one corner, and left their
droppings in another.
Is it my imagination when I say I remember the way water, soup, cold milk
coursed down my throat— to flood the ducts ending at my nipples, positioned in my
nursing daughter’s mouth?
We did not see how the moon hung larger than a hive, a paper lantern, a
parchment dish. And yet we ate from it nightly.