The merest suggestion of mouth
and I was ravenous—I filled the house
with chocolate, chestnuts, strudel,
blood sausage; I bathed in butter.
A glimpse of tongue and I was undone,
simply a hint of heavy cream
and the wax came off in a greasy slab,
there were no cauldrons large enough.
I imagined his body drawn in sections,
flank, rib, and tenderloin, I rubbed
the blade to sparks, my stove walls
sweated, windows dripping.
Afterwards the house was a shell.
My tongue: scorched white.
I had to staple my stomach
down to the size of a lichee nut.
Thimbleful of broth, thimbleful
of gruel, the merest suggestion
floods my mouth with memory
so rich I practically drown.