Recently,
I’ve been stuffing
my body and organs with
tissue paper, empty,
slippery butter and
holes,
I climb through donut holes,
as a small mole in woe at
indentations into fried dough,
dirty oil bubbling
oil tackling
flour, butter and all.
Now, the final product sits
through my finger like a loose
ring: tender and appealing
and
whole.
I contemplate,
how shall I make it
sickeningly sweet?
and maybe if I ingest all that sweet,
I’ll discreetly be as sugar,
delicious,
delightful?
I’ll eat around the hole,
until the hole is no longer a hole
walk out of its role,
for what’s around it is gone,
now it’s just one whole,
nothing.
Maybe my own hole, in between ribs
and nightless nights
will also be gone?
whole or un-hole as long
as its no longer…
hole.
I’ll swallow and gobble
this donut and finally I can say
something solid makes me up,
makes who I am.
This little amorphous saliva,
mucous dough, sugar ball has
a purpose,
and a hero’s journey.
Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.
It is bound to cross the finishing line,
reminding me, forcefully,
that maybe I can too?
I must be able to?
It’s like trying to sink in brine.
Teeth stained by moist
divine, liquid sugar:
guilty for that hopeful nectar.
Eating this donut:
destruction of the void.
That cave in the middle, an intruder
and I’m a marauder without a map.
If my hole were to cave in would it be full,
fulfilled? Filled in,
but in the right way?
The problem, plain simple,
sits in the middle. The
hole.
Infinitely a hole,
infinitely nothing.
It’s okay, I’ll gobble down
sugar coated outsides
and poof! the hole softly
fades out of existence,
my hole slowly fades
out of existence for…
one,
two,
three,
buy me another ring-shaped
fried sugar thing, or whatever,
as long as it can pile up
inside me and I’ll feel this fullness
for once,
even if its just in my stomach.
I know no other material,
usable material to fill this tunnel.
Anthea Yip