Eating

            Feast:

            Green chiles pregnant with cheese. Whole handfuls of grapes like eyes. Lady fingers. Deep mouths of red wine—wet, warm, cool, and dry. Baklava squares. Mountains of goat and armadillo, acres of squirrel and salmon, burial mounds of pheasant and prawn and pork. Three wise nuts. A heavenly host of mashed potatoes. Body, soul, and spirit of seeds.

            Lunch:

             I finished half of a Santa Fe chicken salad with carrots, tomatoes, Romaine lettuce, cabbage, corn, black olives, slices of spiced chicken grilled, and Ranch dressing, not low-fat. I saved the other half for dinner, maybe a midnight snack. Gorging is ecstatic, but moderation has its potential. I’m trying to learn to enjoy the space in my stomach left when I don’t fill up. How wonderful—expectation, desire postponed like a letter in the mail.

            Fast:

             This is for God. This is for God. I will not eat a banana. Think of people in Third World countries. Think of people right next door. Think of people without dinner, breakfast, even a snack. This is for them. This is for them. I’m going to lose weight. I’m going to get close to God and defeat my body. But I love my body; and I love God. I will not eat a muffin. I’ll only drink water. This is for me. Is this for me? This is for me.