but I can buy it in parts. there’s

nothing wrong with only purchasing
one banana, or a knob of ginger

only an inch long. a single king oyster.
a lone ear of corn. sometimes I rip

a cluster of grapes apart. & I skip
the plastic bags after I weigh them

on a scale—drop my spoils onto
the black rubber belt ferrying them

to the cashier, who eyes me with
a smirk blanded by an ATM-smile.

should I tell him I’m a brownling, roughed—
gruffed while growing up into eating

every single grain of rice in my bowl?
the cashier says nothing. after all,

this moment is transactional, & I
have offered nothing more than

what is needed: three dollars, a penny,
a dime. I look at his nametag but

whatever was written on it has been
scratched away by dirt & time.

& I no longer hear my own name
being called in wet markets I frequent

only in fever dreams, in which all
the faces are blurred. I remember,

once, there was a dawn of gnats,
an animal gut stench perfuming

my nostrils. if I could go back, I would
buy that pig again, take it home

to have it slaughtered & roasted
for a holiday. I would smother the meat

with a hot gravy only my elders know
how to make. I would choke on

the crackle-skin, shove more into
my maw. maybe that makes me

primal. or maybe it makes me whole.
at the grocery store, I stuff the banana,

the ginger, the broken lot into my pockets—
puzzle pieces to complete me—

head for the door. it, too, is automatic
& shiny. it slides open easily as

I crumple the receipt, throw it clumsy
into an overflowing trash can outside.

no, I can’t afford a whole universe.
I can only imagine what it’s like

to die with plenty.
to eat without shame.