Shutting the door, I look down at
the small brown takeout box
sitting in my hands.
My fingers, of their own volition,
tear open its folds.
I am eager like a kid
on Christmas morning.
I take one bite, then another,
then another,
until the box is empty
and my hands are slick with grease
and the taste of sin lingers
on my tongue.
The forbidden fruit I have consumed
—Eve’s original betrayal—begs
to be expelled from my body.
I am not so eager anymore.
I hunch in the profane orchard
of poster-covered walls
and a four-poster bed
with the shutters drawn closed in shame.