Everything I have called hunger
has really been appetite. All my need
has been need with serged edges; need
of something; need inside the picky, lucky
subset of Anything. I have known grief
but never the grief that scrapes
the taste buds from one’s tongue.
I have never written those who offer
casseroles the sentence I’m not fussy,
and I have asked for help but never
without minding, a little, how the shirts
are folded, where the platters are put away.
Really, what do I know of want, never
having been shrived of wanting?
Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, and TriQuarterly, as well as other journals and magazines.