He grabs his shirt by the sleeves
and yanks. The armholes stretch
wide over his elbows and swallow
his arms whole, sealed brown scabs - the same
color as his hair - then knuckles. My gums
ache around each tooth.

I can see where his spine folds under
his shoudler blades, wide white
ears pushing through the seal. His skin
is nearly dripping. I once dipped
hard white apples in caramel fondue

but I did not know this hunger when the apple
flesh broke the surface and the caramel wore
thin. His shoulder blades scoop up small handfuls
of fat and muscle once, twice when he rotates
his arms. He stops and they bob up again

White. Mealy. If I pressed a thumb to one
I'm sure it would bruise. Every inch of his back
flakes. I have forked apart layers of buttered crusts
that did not leaf off as perfectly, but I do not bake
much anymore. An apple, here or there. A chicken thigh.