Hunger
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Hunger As a child, I wanted to be a martyr—breasts on a platter, eyes gouged by ravens. I refused to eat, and I thought that made me holy. At school, the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart starved themselves—thin and brittle as dried sugar cane— and they were holy. I hungered to belong, wanted my body eaten away, line and bone erased. Afternoons in the cloister, I would watch them, hidden behind mop or broom, scrubbing my way towards heaven.They were all sharp angles, ghosts. I was an echo, a girl whose parents believed in monkey gods. Chanting names of saints, names of fruit, my mouth was tight with the longing to taste some vow, something sweet like holy water, like nothing. ...
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