Muscle on muscle, fat layered on fat:
arms, belly, buttocks, hips, thighs, legs bulge out—
I’m packing the body for return to life!
This is no resurrection from the dead,
but an escape from the anorexic hold
of losses that can’t be helped, but pile up
like roadblocks at the borders of the self.
Each bite scanned, each calorie turned back
as if vigilance over each spoonful could ward off
the bitter taste of an old unhappiness.
I’m getting free! I’m going home! I dream
of piling my plate with seconds, drinking deep
from the cup of whatever’s put in front of me;
filling my life to the brim and above the brim
with all that I ever wanted but never got:
a downpour, not a drizzle; a bonfire,
not a flickering flame. Bring on the feast,
the miracle of multiplying loaves
to feed a multitude of orphan needs
starved by the iron will of discipline.
Wherever I walk, footprints mark the ground.
Branches I brush by rustle. Birdsong stops
at my approach. I’m a human presence now.
Gone are my waif days, waiting in the wings,
my butterfly touch, my pretty satin things,
the beauty of the body vanishing . . .
No more withholding. I am almost home.
Deep in my self, a light has been left on—
as if somebody, knowing I’d return,
has set the table, kept my supper warm.