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Bake
My plate is always piled
yet my fork has nothing on it,
beamed up by sensory overload
onto a different culinary planet.
Please don’t think me rude
for leaving most of each meal,
it’s simply an agreement I made
with my devil, a self-imposed deal.
My fridge may look full
though recipes are few,
at least I know how to mix vowels
and consonants into a syllable stew.
This is an empty shame,
a hollow unrisen bun:
I’m male, I’m white, I’m educated,
so surely this cake should be done.
A deprivation tank which I worry
echoes an expected gay cliché;
“No, I’ve already eaten, I’ll snack later.
I’m not feeling well, sorry I can’t stay.”
Twenty years of hunger and binge
now seem to live inside my skin,
the pain a physical invisible
late fee payment for thin.
My bowl is always full, but my spoon has no story to be told.
My body is a restaurant chain business, finally ready to fold.
Copyright ©
Thomas Harrison
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