Before, it used to soothe her into sleep.

The sound of her neighbor’s car tires

crunching over the gravel in the driveway

to or from the parking lot.

She pretended she was at the ocean

and the gravel was the waves drowsily

lapping the shore. Now the sound


keeps her up at night. Her stomach growls

as the rocks grind under the cars’ weight

and her tongue traces her teeth anticipating

the chips small enough to lodge

between her molars. Fighting


cravings to go outside, fill a bowl

and munch it like granola, she flicks

on the tv and catches the tail end

of The Birds. She’s always liked pigeons

and remembers from somewhere

that they gobble pebbles to help

their gizzards crack the outer shells

of seeds, especially in the winter

when soft worms don’t offer themselves


up after rain. She hopes her hunger has a purpose,

is trying to help her break down

things that she can’t stomach on her own.

When things get easier, when she doesn’t dream

about eating abandoned birds’ nests

until she disappears like they do

late in the year, she might swallow

less grit, need less of the earth to live.