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.