Member Poem

Five pounds:
I began ignoring mirrors after
Thoreau appeared one night,
urging me to gnaw at my bones.
You’ll love it, he said,
lightly touching my neck.
I could feel my spine crawl towards his hands.
 
Ten pounds:
Now my dog leaves the room
when I walk in.
He’s hurt.
He misses the way
I’d rub his chin
and let him lick the spoon.
 
Fifteen pounds:
In an infomercial,
God said he’d show me how
to give up perfection
and love myself
for only three easy payments
of $29.95.
I didn’t want to believe
my body is a thing.
 
Thirty pounds:
I saw Moses in my bed.
He parted the sheets, asked
which side I preferred.
So I rolled over and will continue to do so
until he tells me I’m finished,
or until it’s morning.
 
Fifty pounds:
The world got bigger.
The Buddha said it would,
that it needed to
before he could show me how
to plant the good seeds, how to eat
the good fruit.