Ode to Gluttony

Sarah Grieve

Tell me about your appetite, my dumpling, and spare me no bit

of swiss chard or marbled steak or sweet potato oozing

with maple syrup and brown sugar, because I want the weight

of ham on your fork, the way its honey glazes your lips,

and don’t forget the buffalo wings and short ribs — your teeth

grazing their bones, the marrow within, milky and thick, licking

at your palette, and all the carrots and Tropicana turn your skin

orange, but you still want more — more pudding that sets

with a film on top — your drawers of Nut Goodies and Cracker

Jacks will never be too full, and when I come to you undressed,

you finger me like cotton candy, knead my flanks with rub,

nibble away at my excess like the crust of cheese on pizza.

My sweet butcher, cut me into bite-size pieces, collect my drippings

for gravy, and when I’m mixed with your spit, swallowed,

I’ll coat your linings, seep through your pores, the smell

of me radiating like waffle cones and chocolate syrup, until you

think you’re bursting with my taste, but buddy, you’ve had me

before, and we’ve only begun — like a hyena you’ll scavenge

the plains in search of my sun-warmed flesh, tongue my insides,

gnaw at my ribs until your bawls roll across the empty savannah.

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