appetite 

i took a bite out of my childhood
& it tasted like watercress & windmills. 
all the forks slithered away like snakes
on their silver bellies.
i once had a cup full of moon moaning
but spent it on the wrong kinds of boys.
now, i wake up to remind the sun of my name.
nothing to be afraid of. we washed 
our faces in the morning glaze.
my father wore his shoes to threads
until his bare feet burst through
leaving print in the snow.
what do you know about mouthfuls.
i want to be stuffed to the brim. i want
to be so so full. my best friend
pinched a wall of our house
& tore off a chunk to take a bite.
she spit the piece out in a napkin.
how do you learn to taste 
only what you want to & leave
the rest. my palette is ready 
for metal & misinformation.
i don't trust my memory. no one else
was there but me so i have
no one to corroborate the following images:
me as tiny as an ant munching on sugar me 
skating on the rim of my mother's wine glass me
slicing cheese as thin as paper
as holding it up to peer through.
no told me i was going to keep 
having a tongue. i used my teeth
like wind chime planks
& let the gust do what it wanted.
once, my brother & i microwaved 
a golf ball & chewed on the fresh surface
until we almost believed it was cake.
i want to trust in my own urges 
to eat nothing but sweets until i die
but i'm told i should be more balanced
with my hungers. we would walk out 
into the back yard & share 
a ladle of soil. pluck out the worms.
there was never quit enough.
the hole of each bagel widened 
like the sky eating the earth.
we ate with our eyes closed. we wore spoons
as necklaces. i sat on a plate 
like a little or devour. 
the oven preheated herself
to the temperature of a nervous face.