with multiple chins, masses of cellulite.
I was his Jacuzzi. But he was my cook,
my only pleasure the rush of fast food,
his pleasure, to watch me swell like forbidden fruit.
His breadfruit. His desert island after shipwreck.
Or a beached whale on a king-size bed
craving a wave. I was a tidal wave of flesh
too fat to leave, too fat to buy a pint of full-fat milk,
too fat to use fat as an emotional shield,
too fat to be called chubby, cuddly, big-built.
The day I hit thirty-nine, I allowed him to stroke
my globe of a cheek. His flesh, my flesh flowed.
He said, Open wide, poured olive oil down my throat.
Soon you'll be forty… he whispered, and how
could I not roll over on top. I rolled and he drowned
in my flesh. I drowned his dying sentence out.
This is clearly a man who gives orders and is accustomed to being obeyed. The obsession with fattening her is blatant; without subtlety. He doesn’t even pretend to give her a pleasant tasting cake. Instead this pouring of oil is a metaphor for extreme physical abuse. 
 Note also the interesting suggestion by one reader that the   assonant  ‘o’s could imitate the sound of choking.
Eat Me