Thin In Winter/New Poem
Thin In Winter
There’s a wolf in town this morning,
they’re talking about it on the radio.
But my head is between my knees,
my skull and stomach freezing, breaking
up after my breakfast bowl of ice.
I don’t watch TV anymore. I would
look at someone on screen, then look
at myself and get sad.
I decided to unplug it, focus on
other things, like sharpening
my thigh bones.
Mum asked when I’d stop. I said
when I’m thin.
She asked if Ana was here for winter.
I told her yes. That she’s going to
hang around until I feel beautiful.
My shrink has stopped trying
to change me. She just listens,
while I explain I’m worried
I’ll eat more in winter.
My brother is angrier than I’ve ever
seen him. He tells me that not even
a polar bear would eat me. It would
turn its nose up, walk away.
I ignore him, interrupt to try and explain
the tragedies of eating a peanut. His eyes
have a confused numbness.
I heard him in the kitchen yesterday.
He’s always in the kitchen.
He was talking with a size ten friend
about how he just wishes I’d die already.
His friend is fascinated by me. I imagine
she’s just waiting for the whale to explode.
I said I’m not cold or pale enough yet.
I still have the remainders of the roast
from three years ago tacked to the inside
of my stomach.
If I didn’t have so much blood, I’d be lighter.
If I could get a surgeon to scrape away
some of my bone material, my skeleton
wouldn’t weigh me down so much.
Hunger is bold today. I nearly eat,
caught looking in the window of a bakery.
They tried to wave me indoors.
I wanted to commit suicide right there.
Ana made a promise that I’ll get so thin,
that when I fall their will be just a dry crack
of bone, and my shadow will just disappear.