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Ravenous I ate a whole honeydew this way once, when Kenny and I broke up, standing just like this in my nightgown at the kitchen sink, with the wrong kind of knife, slicing overripe pastel wedges from stony rind thinking pieces of moon because I was stoned, rocking the blade back and forth, my elbows cold with juice, my chin jutting out as I used bottom teeth to scrape off the last grooves of fruit. This time it’s last night’s crab legs between my jaws, a nutcracker in the drawer but I will not stop; I want to use fangs to crack the shells, then all ten fingers to rip and disjoint and pull, so let me work. Midnight in the kitchen, sink lit by a buzzing blue tube, I don’t have to look up to the window to see who I am: a wild-haired cartoon girl astonished by her hunger. The sink fills with craggy pink moonscapes, empty claws, their sucked-out flesh fishy-sweet in my mouth as I bite and chew and swallow, make a fist to wipe my chin. 65 ...

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