Diminishing Returns
by Kate Lebo
She looks down at the plate, thinks I’ll be sad when you are gone,
forks the last bite of gingerbread and swallows.
She expects sadness to burst her like a hunger bubble,
a gas pain, to taunt with the sweet of another serving.
The penalty of the second piece, how it’s never as good
as the first, is her proof that God exists.
She can’t remember the tang of molasses
after it salves the seams of her mouth.
She traces alphabets in the muck where her cake
gripped the plate like a starfish. Isn’t it strange,
how appetite is collapsible? It has a way of matching the meal.
That’s why she is sad at buffets, with her spoon half-sunk
in pea salad, sour cream, crystallized chicken wings. Sad
when she checks her reflection in a pan
of unblemished Jello. Sadder still
when she wanders the aisles of heat lamps with her tray,
not sure what to serve herself and no longer hungry.
This is not what she meant by a feast.