For Matt Hetherington

My taut insides
twisted in hunger. I was

at the table, my plate
reflected a callow face. I sensed

the sound of emptiness
creak in my bones. I knew

about you. My knowledge
a précis of our friendship: wisdom

served at the banquets
with hors d'oeuvres, empathy

you freely dished out
to so many. I recollected

your largess. My plate
now smeared with the saucy remains

of past food. I wondered
about you: have 'the spokes of the sacred

wheel' been turning in your
direction? Or is your hair's whiteness

(and mine) an indigestible
ingredient of this hunger? I reconsidered

the void before me. Now
a bowl of garnished dahl

steamed in the shape
of your Roman nose, your calm eyes.