Eve's Confession

Eve's Confession
Diane Lockward

Sunday morning I slipped
out of bed, ran to the bakery,
and bought two apple
fritters—huge, bulging
with fruit, and slathered
with sweet white frosting—
breakfast in bed for me
and my husband.

While he slept on
in innocence, his ribcage
peacefully rising
and falling, the kitchen
filled with essence
of apple.  And oh!
those fritters looked
divine.  I broke
off a sample—wickedly
good—then another
and another.

Of course, it was
my husband’s fritter
I sampled.  I stuffed
my mouth.  Globs
of tart gooey apples slid
down my throat, apple
after apple, and chunks
of dough, crusty
from the fryer.

I could feel my cholesterol rising,
arteries hardening, and I
didn’t care.  That fritter
was delicious.

As the calories
mounted, guilt entered
the kitchen.  And still,
that pastry beguiled me.
“Eat of this fritter,” it called.
“Okay,” I said, “one last bite,”
but knew I was going to fall
and fall, knew in my evil
heart I was going
to eat it all.