Hunger

Kezya Hailey

The rain makes everything

smell like iron and wet pavement,

and suddenly I am

aware of my body—how

it wants.

Not loudly or enough

to confess.

Just the small, constant ache

of standing too near to something warm

and pretending Jam not cold. You

speak about the future like a finished meal,

set and plated, already decided.

I nod like I have eaten.

But there is a space under my ribs

that keeps opening. Your sleeve

brushes mine, an accident

we do not correct.

The hunger sharpens,

becomes almost sanctified.

I tell myself it is

Nothing—just weather,

just appetite.

Still, when I go home,

I am starving.