Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1991 |

Matins (2:30 A.M.)

One-third of the worldis dreaming right now of food. Another third stares into empty handmade bowls. And I can't sleepfor indigestion. Is this pain heartburn, or the mysterious reasonfor my incomprehensible death? They die anonymous: Sudanese children. Lebanese mother holding a limp, long baby. Decimated village. They cry, What can I have doneto deserve this pain?This spirit-killing fear? And my meshuggenah fear. That so many should hunger while I promise never again to Really Eat the Whole Thing; that they should sleep in the open wind while I hope for posthumous anthology fame; that they should need while I lie wondering how long it will take my husbandto drive me to the emergency room, and how to spell relief. Jesus. I must be the smallest grainof the salt of the earth. 

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