Behind Drawn Curtains - A caravan of poems

Hunger

Him
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Like small ants that crawl
and bit by bit dig a pit,
the pangs of hunger had cut,
a deep hole into him.
His flesh cried and his heart bled,
each moment was like eternity on hold.
There was no light, no shimmer of hope,
for he was past all bounty, he was past all upbeat.
There were days when he was strong,
he could taste sugar and salt,
hot rice and steaming curry
topped up with an omelette may be,
or a fresh fried fish.
At evenings, he could settle himself with a cup of tea and biscuits.
Those were good days, he closed his eyes remembering them.
His eyes served perfectly, a portal
shape shifting him between the past and present.
When there was hunger..he would close them
and relive a past meal,
when the memory started fading he would open them
to find himself in disgrace.
What if he could sell them as voodoo props for a meal?
or otherwise he could eat them and never come back to the present?

Her
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She could not sleep,
the two tender bodies on her sides,
tossed around hungry and pained.
One arm from the left wrapped her bosom,
one leg from the right trapped her thighs.
She could not sleep, she could not help -
Tears rolled from the side of her eyes,
She stayed still fearing the salty water would touch her lips,
that she would lose her senses now.
How could she feed them?
She had thought all night, as her children
slept with occasional moans, sometimes crying in sleep.
She could probably give them a stale bread from the wastes
she found dumped at the back of a bakery.
or she could probably give them a part of her,
On Monday the pair of eyes, ears and nose,
Tuesday her arms,
Wednesday her legs,
Thursday her starved stomach and lungs,
Friday her long and thick hair,
Saturday her tongue and liver,
and Sunday her heart and brain.
Or probably she could sell all these -
flesh and soul,
or with the last of her coins,
she could buy them poison.