Hunger Lately my hunger has been loud an overwhelming need, a yearn deeper than the pit of my stomach, somewhere at the base of my throat aching, aching, aching Late at night the voice ruminates— slides over the shapes of the cupboards, in the blue glow of the refrigerator light: what will make me feel whole? I grab the thing—the edible, dead, pulled from the branch or dug from the ground thing—sink my teeth into its body, pray that it stops my mind’s incessant whirring but Act I necessitates an Act II until I’m gorged and the bowl is empty and the cup is used up and I’m still, somehow still, not whole