Mother Hunger

Here is the bowl I am saving for you.
The bowl I am for you.
I am. For you.

Still as milk –
I, in the bowl; I,
the bowl.

Repetetion renders
the way churning yields sweet,
the word a desire

to eat, repeated,
until letters
form - rise - melt -

butter on your tongue: I say
hunger, and you do,
my fingertips filled with regret that I

cannot feed myself to you.