I chewed raw macaroni, uncooked oats,
dry field corn from a cob.
Gnawed sleeves, collars,
and nibbled away erasers.
I pulled threads from sweaters,
spun them against my mouth’s roof
like dialing a compass, then pressed
the acute tang of Play-Dough,
its misshapen, any-colored fruit
deep into my cheek.
Someone later said I wouldn’t have
licked a frozen metal bridge
that spanned the creek
on my route to kindergarten
unless another suggested.
There is a version where I wasn’t alone.
Where I didn’t, fearing late,
summon strength to rip away the hidden
texture of my hunger. Rust and blood
a badge upon my tongue.