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.

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