My mother doesn’t eat bread: she kneads and picks at her body’s
soft rolls, cursing the mirror for not being a time machine. What good
would going back in time do? She’s always been too much. It’s 1999.
Mid-astronaut craze. My classmates are set on making their way
into space; I’m thinking of ways to take up less. I’d get claustrophobic
in the rocket ship, shatter a window, implode or freeze. Might be worth it
though, to land on the ground more lightly—the weightlessness.
Junior year: every morning, after every meal, before bed—I pray.
Bare knees on a marble pew, a toilet bowl confessional. I take
my socks off last, rip out my hair elastic. Lyle asks why I carry
a sweater everywhere I go no matter the season. As a kid, I was
the queen of snow angels in mid-December, Mom chasing me
with scarf and mittens. The suggestion of a breeze freezes
me in place, so I stay in bed. Showers aren’t for clearing away
the day. There is no day, just softened shivers. My father says:
Now you’ve done it, you’re a perfect weight. I eat leaves
for every meal that isn’t breath and have a panic attack
in the bathroom at Ivy’s dinner party. I don’t have to go
outside to see stars. I just stand up. Freud said dreams are windows
into our subconscious desires. I’m smoke blown through delicate
lips. I lower the bong, envious as gaseous gold evanesces into
the ether. There’s a silk carpet on the yacht I work on. We brush
it to erase footprints even apparitions leave behind. When I walk,
I don’t leave a trace. I did it. I’m nothing. I’m
