Hunger

by Ruth Awad

Imaginary, the value of the pound, and yet when it drops like an apple rotted from its branch, my family may starve. 1,507 pounds to the dollar. What that means if you're not an economist: a kilogram of meat is now a luxury. A line huddles outside a Beirut bakery though the price of subsidized bread is up again. The worst financial crisis in 150 years, the World Bank says. And I don't see the story anywhere here. In my house with its lights on. Where I choose to skip meals. Once we were stitched together by food stamps. Dirt poor, my mother describes it, though land is more valuable than almost anything. America and its incongruent abundance: fields of corn and the hungry in the streets. The cattle well fed. Security guards in grocery stores. If you die from hunger, the spirit goes searching for food and the wanting never stops. Hard to say what you'd do to live. My father picked an apple from someone's tree, was chased until he dropped it. If you steal an apple, it's a crime. If you withhold an apple from someone who’s hungry, it's not.