Eating

I’ve never known
what to do about food,

my brain’s fragile glass
threatening to shatter

each time I think
about how much or little

I eat, what so much matter
can do to a person.

Every meal is therapy
and material for therapy

and I don’t always know
how to be other than this.

Three times a day
the desire and delight of it

and always a question
of whether this is okay,

a dialogue I don’t know
how to silence. I hope

some distant day for this
to not be me — to break

bread with only joy,
smell the yeast scent,

feel the tender stretch
of gluten and taste

the sweet and salty
wholeness of it all,

crumbs pouring down
only like confetti.