ravenous ovenbird My recent dreams are full of food fit for war-hungry Scottish brutes in an alehouse. It’s all meat on bones, begging to be torn off with your teeth, and rich desserts. In one dream I devour the most delicious pork chop I’ve ever eaten. In another I find a cabinet full of steaming pies in the middle of a Walmart. In another I’m at a wedding and the table is heaped high with racks of lamb, the meat on the bones so rare it’s almost raw. In all of these dreams I am possessed of a Neanderthal’s appetite, sinking teeth into crackling edges of fat, or tearing into the flaking pastry of an apple pie. It occurs to me that I am starving but nothing I eat fills the empty spaces that keep crying out for sustenance. I am a hungry_ghost, my stomach distended in a state of malnourishment, my hands always (always) grasping. I suppose I want more than cast off table scraps. I want to eat the world raw and grind gristle between my teeth. I’m tired of being polite. I want to eat with my hands, lick my fingers clean. How often have I denied myself a taste of the day’s offerings? How often have I simply gone without because I didn’t deem myself worthy of a feast? Too often, perhaps, and in dreams I seek a cure for the gnawing in my gut. In life I find that the fridge is nearly empty, and make do with toast and tea for breakfast, ignoring the ravenous wraith that follows me through the day. 250521 what's it to you? who go blather from