The Brooklyn Rail

The bake shop down the street has the cake on the counter. “There
you go—Ready when you are,” chef shouts as I enter. I pay in cash
with a gloved hand and shove the sweets into my bag like theft. In
darkened room, I eat the skin first, a hardened glaze, a soured
crunch. I peel the layer off with bare hands, squeeze each bite between
fingerprints. Roll the dough in palms, till flour turns wet again, back in
time, erase. “That one feeds seven to ten,” chef said weeks ago when I
placed my order for the first time, for the rest of time. “Perfect,” I said
in the voice I use in public.

I am seven to ten bodies. I am fourteen to twenty limbs. I am eight
tongues and nine stomachs sometimes. I am either no eyes or sixteen.
This body, alone, needs sugar enough for a family. This body, alone,
deserves dessert daily meant for the week. I will eat till I am sick. Then
I will continue. Stuffing crumbs into all my spaces, nose and eyes and
ears. Where nothing else can touch.