From hands and knees, you lengthen
to pigeon pose, gesture muscle,
remember to lift your own sick heart.
On the balcony, a flock of house
sparrows scuttle dry leaves, smear
the circle of seed you spilled
below the feeder. They feast,
bob off with brimmed beaks,
return immediately for more.
You’ve spoiled them says your cat
chittering through the screen
but you are just trying to believe
there is virtue in eating to full. Soon,
you should scrape the bird shit
and shells from the balcony,
step from shade, enter spring.
Consider the empty garden pots
awaiting mulch. Consider tomato
bellying into the new
spray of sun.
You don’t know how to ask for respect—
learned this from the last man,
an acrobat, happiest head over
heels, hoisting himself wholly,
inverted, and with his
own two hands. Sadly, your hips
won’t hold. You splay, should
spit out his words for you,
how you needed too much.
Hug your knees to your chest.
You don’t know how to shape
your body with satiety, can try only
to breathe—even breath
feels like yearning.
The truth is, you shouldn’t have to ask.
The truth is, you could interlock
your fingers, press your palms
to the base of your skull, feel desire
rear under you. Kick up to meet it,
flood your brain with blood. Sure,
not all gorging comes this easy
but why shouldn’t you fill,
go on, overflow?