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A fever appears across your shoulder. You vow to sweat it out. 

You bring out leftovers from a feast, the dog an inch from your hand at any moment. She was taken off the Puerto Rican streets, she was taken from a life of hunger and dog fights and now she walks out of her way to avoid purebreds in the streets, now she sits an inch away from my hand, her whole body quivering, hoping for morsels even though she just was fed.

Suddenly it's clear as day, how scarcity sits in one's bones, like the body can grow but the vast emptiness inside does not shrink in proportion, it eats up the insides and reminds itself at every turn. You were raised hungry, you remain hungry. 

I speak to her in soft tones as I feed her bits of meatball, pears, egg, I say When will you learn that you aren't living on the streets, when will you learn that you are safe now, that you will get all the food you need? and the words are scarcely out of my mouth before realize I am saying it to myself. 

When will you learn that you have made it out of the woods,
that you have rowed your boat to shore?

When will you believe that you are safe?