Star On the Brink
The anorexia is not conspicuous,
being half-submerged, just
breaking through.
She’s a powdered mirage.
Her skin a hyaline shear
drawn over a necklace
of clavicle bones.
She knows her chest
is returning to childhood,
she wants to shelter there,
to be her own child.
Small breasts bob under
burgundy nipples,
buds made more prominent,
anchored as they are
to shipwrecked ribs.
Designer bling distracts.
Cameras whir, she poses,
one hand on a denuded hip,
not resting there,
but stealthily carrying
an ounce of flesh,
toward a spotlight.
We collude with her,
applaud the way
she decorates a condition.
We all know her emaciated beauty
is a mutual hoodwink.
We know that the closer to death
sexuality becomes,
the more rapacious our appetite,
the more we will wail,
as she slips
through our hungry hands.
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