It's been weeks. Weeks. It is all I can do to stare up into the canopy of the tent. I cannot even begin to try and move from the sleeping bag. I turn my head to the left to assess her condition. She is far worse off than I. Her hips have become bone, hard, thick cat ears jutting from her waist. Her sweater and blankets cover most of her body, though I know that
Johannes sits in a cage of bones, eating canned mandarins and jars of sour cherries, awaiting his death. Margarethe visits him there when the old woman is out. “I’ll save you,” she says. “I’ll find a way – somewhere we can flee to, somewhere she can’t follow. I’ll steal the key from her.” The cage is held together with steel cables and padlocks and barbed wire. There is no escaping from it.
“You know what she’s planning,” says Johannes, and Margarethe knows. Fresh meat is hard to come by. If they run, she will try to follow.
“Why is she waiting, do you think?”
“Fattening me up, probably. She keeps feeling my finger, seeing how thin it is.” He scoffs. “I always show her a bone – there are enough of them
the sun and
how many calories does it have?"
and i wish i could see myself objectively, wish
my skin wasn't worn from
have you ever seen your
hands as i do, strange bloated things
in search of bones?
and i wish i could remember when beauty
was a mouth red as pomegranate seeds eyes
like sickle moons. back when it was
more than numbers. ninety-five, eighty-eight.
get down to eighty-five and you will be
thin and sexless as wet march.
tuesday pa told me: "acceptance ain't something you
can buy at a convenience store."
and i am all mass no energy
as if all this time i have been
thinking i am breathing city lights
but they are really just water. sorry,
sorry, sorry. i have
atlantis resting inside my lungs.