The waiter brought me a plate of gnocchi.
The gnocchi did not look like plump, rippled silk
fairy cocoons limned with liquid sunlight
and gold-dusted by Tinkerbell’s wand,
or smell like manna from Mt Olympus.
It looked and smelt like gnocchi with cheese sauce,
which was great because that was exactly what I’d ordered.
I started eating.
After five minutes, there seemed to be more than I’d started with.
I ploughed on.
The gnocchi filled my stomach, spilled
over the top and slid down through my knees.
I had to kick off my shoes as the little
dumplings inflated my toes one by one.
The overflow tumbled into my arms.
My skin took on a quilted appearance.
My fingers puffed up so that I could barely hold my fork.
It fell into the sauce and I scrabbled
with both hands to retrieve it.
My fingers looked like plump, rippled silk
fairy cocoons limned with liquid sunlight
and gold-dusted by Tinkerbell’s wand.
They smelt like manna from Mt Olympus.
I finished.
My hands were now so heavy, I couldn’t use them at all
so I had to lower my face to the table to lick my plate.
The waiter kindly brought two white fingerbowls, filled
with clear water and stuffed a swollen hand into each.
Now my fingers looked like bathing cherubs.
The waiter waited for me to leave.
I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t move.”
He said, “That’s quite alright.”
While he waited, the waiter
kindly spoon-fed me with sweet gelato.
Buono
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