With apologies to Thom Gunn

Nightmare of feasting, drinking, endless eats.
I ate. What feasting foods were then my meats?

Tender ribs, sous vide for one full day,
Or duck with rice and herbs in pot of clay?

Or dainty broth, rich and clear as light,
That’s tasted once, and then put out of sight?

Melon, rice, fish, eggs, banana, speck, tea.
What foods, what groaning boards there were to see.

These feel like fruits, and the peel is thin;
No bone or shell here, but sweet juice within.

With what in mind have they been put on ice?
So cold; sweet. I’d buy them all at any price.

The pale white bloom the sign it’s ripe at last,
My teeth tear, tear; I take the fallen mast

As if the fruit were placed there for my sake.
With chin still dripping I realize my mistake.

But that plum’s flesh already is in mine.
I think on what I’ve done—I am a swine.

I eat and eat—you say that it is greed.
It is; what’s worse, I ate the fruit you need.

Forgive me, you whose breakfast plums I stole,
Let me dig deep and try to make you whole.

Cool flesh of fruit beneath the sour skin;
Almond kernel the smooth-faced pit within.

With your permission I could replace your meal
And give you fruit, which I would never steal.

I draw my begging pen across the page,
Seeking forgiveness, and to quell your rage.