mother hunger

When I am alone with myself,

half naked, the sun coming in

that seems ever less intent,

blowing open the curtains, slowly,

I go between love and despair

for my permanence;

how I never change. The same face,

the same mine behind my eyes.

I wish someone would say

I carry the weight of the world in

the slope of my shoulders or lips,

that my body manifests

like a wound the loss that caves me.

Have I left it too late to say

my mind goes blank,

have I delayed the avalanche

of inevitable grief,

so that some day it will bury me?

I was promised so many harbours,

places to throw my ache away:

into felt-pens and prayer rooms,

walks at dusk and wine.

I’ve got mother hunger

but I’d just tear them all apart,

stand-ins and surrogates

who love me but not enough.