Inang, who knew me when I was only a mouth:  
forgive me.  
I used to be better at being hungry. 

You knew me as a twink when I abstained from meals  
with the confidence of a god.  
You were there with me on vacation at Fire Island  

when I accepted the exorbitant price of chicken fingers  
as divine intervention, when I sought only  
to have my faith fondled and the rims of my nostrils  

crusted and bleeding. Now I give in to bread  
like a man. Inang, I fear I have softened too much. 
My selfish care. Those panicked, dizzy snacks 

that separate me from justice. 
When my kuya visits me I say yes to every restaurant.  
I buy us train passes, avoid the long walk like a sin. 

Inang, I know I am not welcome in your arms  
unless I have worked to be there.  
I am not welcome in the Walgreens unless I refuse  

to purchase those plastic tubes of sweet chili almonds  
that I caress.  
Inang, lift my hunger away towards heaven  

so I might stop stooping to its level. 
Deliver me, Inang, not from my satiety,  
but from the satisfaction that has grown alongside it. 

Take me to the store. Bathe me in the water  
of the vegetable misters. 
Carry me home in the reusable mesh bag of my devotion. 

After this exile from Whole Foods  
show unto me my blessed daily feeding— 
o clementine, o lemon water, o sweet virgin nothing.