The Hunger Artist At Home

The Hunger Artist At Home

The Hunger Artist At Home

In the days following my fastings
I sit in my empty cage, the door open,
hearing again the taunts of the crowds
who poke me, accuse me of stashed food,
curse me when I don’t respond.
What do they know, the imbeciles?
I would gladly double my forty days
if they’d let me. Then I might
approach the state of skin-covered bone
I aspire to, see in the night –
become a creature as light as the things
I surround myself with: the melon gourd,
the empty ostrich egg, the crow’s skull.
They cannot imagine this, the fools.
I nibble my foul-tasting crusts,
reach out a hand to set spinning
the globe of the moon, close my eyes
to imagine a skeleton slowly walking
across the moon’s surface, then climbing
into a crater to lie there and be still.