mary june brown

March of Young Hunger

You are still so lovely

As lovely as I remembered

He wrote and the writing

Filled her up

She was still so filled

Inexplicable fingers of satisfaction

Tapping and gratitude seeping

All out of proportion

See, she’s sure she lost her

Looks, that children and worry and

Even contentment (and even lack of

Hunger) had stolen her concavity

And so stole her appeal

 No, no, he reassured, verbal

Pats on the hand that still tapped

In staccato for several days

(nothing can sustain) and the beat ran mute, alas

All convexity once again

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