Eight O'Clock

The fridge light is too bright.

It's 8 PM and I haven't eaten

maybe since 6 in the morning,

or maybe I did eat

and forgot, the way you forget

what you wore yesterday.

My hand reaches past the containers,

past the labeled leftovers,

past the things I planned for,

straight to the cheese,

the bread,

the cold chicken

I'll eat standing up over the sink

where nobody has to see me do it.

There's a plate in the drawer.

There's a fork.

There's a table two feet away.

I take nothing.

This is not elegant.

This is not the kind of hunger

you write poems about,

the kind that means something,

the kind that has meaning.

This is just the body

finally loud enough

to interrupt the silence,

and me, still trying to quiet it,

still trying to make it quick,

still trying to eat

like I'm apologizing for having

a stomach at all.

The chicken tastes good.

I hate that it tastes good.