Today I am at home
writing poems.
My life goes well:
only a few sirens herald disaster
in the ghetto
down the street.
In the world, people die
of hunger.
On my block we lose
jobs, housing and breasts.
But in the world
children are lost;
whole countries of children
starved to death
before the age
of five
each year;
their mothers squatted
in the filth
around the empty cooking pot
wondering:
But I cannot pretend
to know
what they wonder.
A walled horror
instead of thought
would be my mind.
And our children
gladly starve themselves.
Thinking of the food I eat
every day
I want to vomit, like
people who throw up
at will,
understanding that whether
they digest or not
they must consume.
Can you imagine?
Rather than let the hungry
inside the restaurants
Let them eat vomit, they say.
They are applauded
for this.
They are light.
But
wasn’t there a time
when food was sacred?
When a dead child
starved naked
among the oranges
in the marketplace
spoiled
the appetite?