Sunday Poem

ANOREXIA  

The less there is of you the more of me.
The doctors refer to me as he.
He is not you, they say to her.
She takes a shaky breath. She runs around
and I run with her underground.

I play my hostess like a violin,
my minimalist concerto for torso and limbs.
That’s you in the loo, your woodwind guts,
the cymbal splash of watery vomit,
the kettledrum of bowels in the bowl.

I am the heart of these stick figures,
don’t bother asking where I come from.
Look to the weak strain in your code.
Look to notions of perfection,
to where you fall short in execution.

My hostess dreams of becoming an actress,
dreams of the lead in Les Mis.
She gives me such a deep and hungry kiss;
she’ll end up in the hospital next to the hospice,
where I may have to tighten my belt.

She imagines a memorial mass in Maine:
the mourners arrive by private plane
and are ferried to the church in limousines.
I play the mourners like a violin,
my catgut bow weeping and wailing.

I spend most of my time not dying.
They spend most of their time trying.
Those last two I plucked from Fred Seidel.
I could go on, in fact, I think I will,
my passion for girl flesh is inexhaustible.

Tuesdays we meet with her group—
the Boa-restrictors, my own little cult.
One has a ribcage like a catcher’s mitt
One takes pills to make her shit.
One shaves lanugo off her limbs.

Clouds cluster and turn the sky purple.
Little children splash about in puddles.
A Pomeranian takes on a Bichon Frise.
My little pets are down on their knees.
The less there is of you the more of me.

I spend most of my time not dying.
They spend most of their time trying.
I am the Caesar of their seizures. They are the kill.
I’m at the heart of these stick figures’ hearts.
I could go on. I could stop. I will.

From Perfection (2012) by Patrick Warner.