I saw you peeking from behind the cupboard door.
I saw you huddled at the bottom of the cookie jar
in my grandma’s kitchen. I saw you
melting down the neighbor’s chin,
nectarine fresh from the market.
I saw you soft caramel between my fingers,
lollipop in the bank, donut beside my father’s coffee,
bright pink icing on the wedding cake.
I imagined you piled high in my bowl,
Neapolitan ice cream stolen from
the deep freezer in my grandpa’s basement.
My mother warned me not to eat you.
My friend pinched my side and said “don’t.”
My aunt reminded me that when I was grown
I’d have to exercise after Christmas dinner
or else the food would collect under my skin
like a dangerous coat and smother me alive.
My TV yelled at me to banish you,
replace you with lean fat and dietary fiber.
I thanked you,
for powering my body
through 10 hours of digging in the dirt,
the small burst of joy I felt to eat
a chocolate cherry from a giant bag.
I saw you,
rosehip blooming on the branch,
apple pulled towards the mud,
fig bruising beneath the blue sky.
All of it beckoning me.
You,
a delicious sight, a tall glass of water, a beauty,
cowering in the cupboard and
shuddering at the mythology we’d built around you—
as a devil disguised as sweetness,
rather than knowing your flavor as an anchor
into the real world,
the belly, and the mouth.
