Hungry Woman

A stranger walks by
with a gunpowder smile
in a coffee-house, of all places.
I felt her eyes on me,
I swear: the weight of them
just sliding around on my skin.

“How do you do it?
Don’t you ever get hungry?”

I said,
My hunger is a siren-song,
It calls to me all night.
From this sinking ship, this convulsive sea –
the tender promise of safety.

My hunger is a scarlet wound,
the sweet child of self-violence.
I’m always licking it, as though
It’s been inflicted by someone else.

My hunger is a garment.
I slide it off of me like a dress.
Fold it up then, I’d rather be bare
The rest is just junk for the attic.

Actually, I wanted to say,
I do get hungry.
I get hungrier
than anyone I know.
It’s something of an ache
which sits against my ribs,
flooding every crevice,
pooling inside of me,
like blood from a hemorrhage.

By Sharmila P K