Three Years of Manna Hunting

I found the first half of this poem saved from 2008. I wrote the second verse this morning.

My manna dries up overnight - I collect it
relentlessly, stuffing worn canvas bags
until my back and hands and legs are raw
from the desert sun. And then in my tent,
I finally rest and let the flaky bread
melt on my thirsty tongue. And I sleep
satisfied.
The sun rises over cold
sand and my empty stomach murmurs. I
riffle through my bag
fingers scraping canvas
nothin’ but net.

---

Years and years
feeling sweat gather
in the crooks of my elbows
and watching blisters turn to
pus turn to flapping
skin turn to armor.
Years and years of
sleeping hungry, waking up
hungry gnawing sticks and sucking
stones and choking on dust
Years and years
collecting.
Every day, every
morning grasping only
cloth.
Years and years of only
canvas as the sun rises.

Years and years,
and still
the manna won't last.

but my legs are getting stronger.