Craving

Craving

I’ve rarely been really hungry—

cravings, yes, for something sweet,

or salty, or my grandmother’s okra.

But real hunger? Not so much.

The crowd wasn’t hungry either,

not really—just eager to be fed,

happy to make Him king by force.

They didn’t want bread;

they wanted security with crusts.

This kind of craving settles into bones,

fashions gods from stones,

asks what work must be done

to keep the bread flowing.

Faith in the system—

not in the man who broke bread,

who touched lepers with bare hands.

Faith in the way things stay the same,

in crumbs swept off the edge of the table.