Box of Twinkies, 1984

You know where to find them, squirreled awayon the top shelf: garish yellow on white, cornflower bluelettering, an oval shape wearing a cowboy haton the front. He even has a lasso. His drawn-on eyes see youand don't mind. The crinkle of cellophane,the cream spots left on the wrapper, the firstbite. Spongy sweet, perfect blend of cake and fill. Take morebites, liberate the crumbs, pick them up, lick your fingers. One more. Wipeyour top lip before someone sees. Dad worries about the sweets,worries about the glasses of milk you like to drink. The rounded stomachof your purple swimsuit, the one with the racing stripes. The cousinsgiggle when you go to the beach. If he sees you holdingthe wrappers, licking the cream off the plastic, closing your eyes,he will snort because you're being piggy,you see? It's because he loves you. That's what love looks like. Forget that,there's another cake in the package, he'll probably think your sisters ate it—they like to climb the shelves with their bare feet. Animals.Tear the cellophane, stick your tongue in the well of white,laugh like you get the joke.