after Yehuda Amichai

Hunger will whimper
in your chest until you know it’s there.

Beneath my wrists are the black horns of a ram.
I clench, and they give for my fingers.

The horns are not horns
but the drop handlebars of a bicycle.
The smell of olive oil is really
the musk of a garage. This was a dream
distinctly American—

the horn of the harvest was full.
I had everything I needed
and my stomach only growled
at strangers.

– Jake Goldwasser