Eve's Confession

Eve’s Confession

 

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.

 

—Diane Lockward