The story that started it all is not a woman’s disobedience, but a woman’s hunger. Generations of daughters cursed because of what one woman put in her mouth, chewed, swallowed.
“Do you really want to eat that?” my mother asks.
Love does not put down a plate only to insist that you abstain.
Love does not hold out scent, flavor, the crisp bite you can already feel sweetening against your tongue, and tell you: “Don’t eat.”
The prophets scribed hunger as women’s downfall, as if the first man controlled his own flesh perfectly. As if generations of sons do not feel their own unruly pang in the gut, their own insistent clanging ache and gnaw. As if hunger, and hunger’s denial, both come to us alone—our feminine birthright.
“Do you really want to eat that.”
I would take up space among the women who eat, yes. Yes, among the women who grow. Among the women who hunger, who claim needs, who plant their feet, who have mouths.
I am born a mouth.
I am born a hunger.
Lock me out your god’s gate, and I will break the fencing down. Insistent, clawing, gaping, ravenous—I will not knock. I will not ask. I will eat your gate and your lock and every wall you build, before taking your entire orchard of trees between my teeth and my jaws closing sharp.
[I think this piece will eventually make its way into being part of a larger collection—a “Hunger Chronicles,” perhaps? seems to be the direction much of my current writing is headed—but that remains yet to be confirmed.
And how are all of you, my lovelies? ~alice]