When I ate obsessively, I somehow believed physical food could, in some weird way, fill my emotional needs and spiritual void. During my recovery, I wrote a poem about that odd and fruitless search.
What truth will I discover in the lettuce
as I peel back each leaf
one mysterious fold after another?
What lies at the core of the apple,
at the heart of the tender artichoke,
beneath the skin of the succulent orange?
What questions will be answered
when I tiptoe to my refrigerator
what will they say
those French beans
those Italian sausages
those Persian figs?
Perhaps the answers lie
in the wilderness of a black forest cake,
at the bottom of the cookie jar
or suspended in hot cocoa
obscured by clouds of whipped cream.
When will the revelations come?
I have crossed craters of english muffins
sailed rivers of butter
and oceans of gravy
consulted countless oracles
in their cold white boxes
and still I am unsatisfied.
My desire consumes me.
I have been gaunt and starving
all my life.