“a chronicle of hunger”

commissary bratwursts browned nearly black, nearly smoking! daddy hurries
to the billowing smoker and forks one. your weekend favorite, i stand there, eating in a hurry.


late kindergarten nights: leftover crab bisque soup and a packet of two saltine crackers.
curls dip like finger food. i jolt awake. as not to insult daddy, i eat, hurriedly.


my daddy teaches me only how to make a pb&j. i am little. i am proud to finally cut
it how i like: diagonally. we cut it together, with a sharp knife. slow, jas, no need to hurry—


without him, i learned plenty, and cut myself often enough. my fingers spoke over the cutting
board do you not feel tender with me? but i am drowning them over sink water, hurrying


to the emergency room. my belly a mess of nerves and hunger, i only see ketchup sauce and
dried barbecue sauce on my hands. i am open, i am stinging, but, here, i am in no hurry.


they suture the wound and i am raw. i remember daddy cut his fingers too, clean off.
a young man in a kitchen alone, his flesh in a plastic bag til sewed back on in a hurry.


we may never stamp out our compulsion, me and my daddy, but i now whisper to myself,
as kind as he did, slow. no need to hurry. why must we even hurry.