Poetry

When hunger becomes 
a little god. You start waiting 
for a miracle to happen. 
Like a grandfather clock, you 
had stopped moving. Time 
becomes a scoop from your ancestor’s 
skull. You start digging 
the floor for broken pins, 
holding the secret prayers. 
You watch yourself now 
buried in words, picking up 
some flowers with numb 
hands, waiting for the ants 
to come, to open the 
curved in, corona of narcissus.