Appetite

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, ribs, 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.