The Law of Hunger

Helen's hands trembled,  

caught beneath fluorescent light,  

five eggs hidden deep,  

fragile like her children’s ribs,  

like the bones of silence.  

The officer’s boots approached,  

the weight of justice echoed.  

“What have you stolen?” he asked,  

and her eyes, hollowed,  

answered more than her lips:  

"Five eggs, sir, five eggs."  

Five pieces of morning,  

five promises of life.  

He saw the crime unfold,  

not in her fingers’ grasp,  

but in the hungry shadows  

of her quiet home.  

The law curled cold between them,  

but his hand did not rise.  

Instead, he walked her back,  

through aisles of plenty,  

bread and milk,  

more than she had known in months.  

Her tears fell in silence,  

dripping like broken yolks,  

and the words escaped her,  

“Sir, this is too much—”  

But he shook his head softly,  

"Sometimes the law falters,  

sometimes the heart must stand."