I’ve known the predictable varieties:
peered into empty pantries with unfounded
hope and then denied myself when the cabinets
overflowed because my own body was too much.
The rawness when you can only eat a few morsels
at a go, when even peaches and peas can poison
the child you’re trying to grow. In girlhood, our home
filled with rotting produce: moldy romas and spongy
vidalias, wormy green bells, black bananas that smelled
like liquor hanging captive in wire cages. I shaved
away at them until I unearthed the edible kernels,
often no more than a bite. But the most gnawing hunger
drives me back to this desire: The moment the world
still stood open for us, cascading jazz into our hair
and watercolors in our mouths. The snow spun pirouettes
outside, and the children slept full-bellied under
their blankets. Mangoes loafed whole and untouched
in the fruit basket, not a mealybug in sight. You revealed
the secret tattoo only I get to witness—garlic bulbs,
arbol chilis, and cilantro full color against your contours,
the places you overflow. I tasted you, warm tobacco
and nectarine, and for one sweet, foolish instant
believed I’d never go hungry again.
–
B. Tyler Lee is the author of one poetry collection, With Our Lungs in Our Hands (Redbird Chapbooks, 2016), and the winner of the 2020 Talking Writing Contest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 32 Poems, Hayden’s Ferry, The Hunger, Cheat River Review, Blue Mesa Review, and elsewhere.