Once again I have added not eating to the list of ways I deal
with the burden of being alive. I feel too old for this.
I have this strange solidarity with my seventh grade self.
The way she lived on green apples and coffee for six months
and her mother never noticed.
The friends I live with now say nothing when I do not eat.
When I carefully measure out my 600 calories a day
and half of them are wine. It is not their responsibility
to take care of me. It is my own. But lately,
I’m doing a terrible job.
Lately I’ve been looking at my body like it belongs
to someone else. Watching it slowly shrink like the crowd
at a party that that has gone too late. My stomach
has been an enemy my entire life. I miss her now that she’s gone.
She is a conquered enemy. A vanquished foe.
I did not want to win. Not like this.
Most of all, it is you I miss, you,
and owls, you, and the snap of cold in late February,
I brake beneath an overpass when a train travels on it,
overhead, noise, within, more in a poem once I read the line:
“When I say ‘you’ in my poems,
I mean you,” this too is true of me, and my poems
was made for? In each photograph
she is a dandelion at the birth
of a tornado, granting heaven
its every furious wish. To see
her move - the stuttering ballet, machine
gun scripture inked into the muscles
of her legs, is to know the body, at last,
as not a conduit for prayer, but prayer
how seeing the shape of your mouth
that first time, I kept staring
until my blood turned to rain.
Some things take root
in the brain and just don’t
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.
Linguistics, University of California, Santa Cruz
<i>Beyond Deep and Surface: Explorations in the Typology of Anaphora</i>