famine 

dad used to collect carved wooden fish:
bass, sun fish, yellow tails, clown fish--all kinds.
each year everyone in my family gets hungrier.
i can see it in the way we move our hands
around the house. the quick way we flick light
on & off. we used to be satisfied be small mouthfuls--
by spoons full of powdered milk & saltines. 
he'd buy the wooden fish from an artist 
down at the flea market. the man had a trailer 
filled with all kinds of wooden animals. 
some painted. some blank. an ark. i wanted
to be one of his otters standing tall & alert.
he'd come home with the fish stacked under 
his arms. a fisherman. biblically proud
as he drilled holes in the wall 
of the yellow upstairs hallway to hang 
each fish. he taught them how to swim 
by example. he laid on his back & invented water.
i watch my brother put tea bags into his mouth
& eat the sacks hole--the leaves stuck 
between his teeth. i eat every shirt-button 
i can find. these are desperate vistations.
mom, filling a bowl with yarn to devour it
like spaghetti. twirls a fork. she says she likes 
the texture. dad hates everyone's cravings & 
tells us to stay away from his fish. 
we hear them trying to swim--
their clunky wooden bodies wriggling
against the wall. he begs them to stay.
hunger is a form of fear. everyone in my family
is afraid of something different. i can't speak
for them but i am scared the fish were 
always waiting to leave us. i'm scared
that each time dad bought a new one that he was
trying to reach something his mouth
wouldn't give him. i earn his trust by
telling him how tired i am of the rest
of the family so he lets me go visit our fish.
i think again of living a life as 
a wooden animal. i might already be
a wooden animal-- i just need someone
to paint me beautiful. everything is ending
very specifically without a drop of water
or a tooth's worth of food. the flesh of fish
is often flaky & white. i pull a fish 
down from the wall. i sink in my teeth.
the wood is hard & varnished. the fish 
feels finally useful. i am so ashamed.
hunger is a dismantling agent. i eat more 
wooden fish & each is ripe & writhing.
trust is an important thing to throw away.
all my family enter the hall. the hall gets
longer & longer. we've seen this trick before.
we almost eat each other but we find
the right fish to satify us at least
for today. i tell my family it's not that
i don't love them-- it's that 
being in this house brings this voraciousness 
out of me. i cannot be stopped.
a constant state of needing 
the next mouthful. my father weeps in
the empty hallway. i saved a fish for him.
i teach him how to eat. it is important 
to always eat especailly when coming apart.
the tongue with be a boat to lift you home
back into yourself. we disperse to our
separate rooms where we curl up
& think of the fish.