Hungry Lisa Rea Currie

Lisa Rea Currie

Hungry

1878 The cart rattles by the front door carrying milk she can’t afford. Hunger drowned out by children playing on the cobbles. She pours day old madness from the tea pot. Closing her eyes by the cold hearth, when she wakes it will be Friday.

1995 She tries not to look too long, taunted by the full-length mirror. Breathing in flattens her stomach, hip bones jut painfully against jeans that cost the earth. Three more pounds will make the difference. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

2022 There is one packet left in the cupboard, not enough to split between two children. She could cook from scratch, she could earn more, shop smarter, budget better. She would still be hungry.