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Anorexic

 Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.
Yes I am torching ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.
How she meshed my head in the half-truths of her fevers till I renounced milk and honey and the taste of lunch.
I vomited her hungers.
Now the bitch is burning.
I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.
Thin as a rib I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe a claustrophobia a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide once by a warm drum, once by the song of his breath and in his sleeping side.
Only a little more, only a few more days sinless, foodless, I will slip back into him again as if I had never been away.
Caged so I will grow angular and holy past pain, keeping his heart such company as will make me forget in a small space the fall into forked dark, into python needs heaving to hips and breasts and lips and heat and sweat and fat and greed.

Poem by Eavan Boland
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