count how many teeth you are missing by biting down into your hand & counting the gaps in the marks you leave. count the marks that you leave. count the marks that are left. count the marks. tally them up & begin. buy denture cleaner. place the tablet in a glass of warm water. lukewarm will not do. watch the water fizz up. bubbles attach to the sides of the glass. remember how you cling. take out your jaw & place it into the glass. watch the bubbles cling to the bone. remember how you cling. place your hands around the glass. remember the warmth on your skin. do not place your body onto the page. leave it in the glass with your jaw & all of the teeth you are missing. create a new body from the gaps you see in the glass. give her a name that is not yours. alter it. your words are the diet to change her body that you forged. do not use the name ‘anorexia’ as if you say her three times in the mirror, she will appear bloodied behind your candle, toothless & angry. she will not allow you to name your baby. she will brand you as the madwoman in the attic. she will take your feet & bind them. she will take your hands & break them. she will take your will & starve you. do not write her onto the page. write around her. write in the gaps. wish for more gaps. less teeth. more fingers. more toes. double-jointed knuckles. write until the water is cold. write until the skin around the jawbone has become wrinkled. write until her body is papier-mâché & the words on the newspapers have bled into white glue. (she could have been built with newspapers & flour & water but the flour had too many calories. she chose the glue instead). write until the body forgets the sound of her own name & she leans against the bathroom counter to regurgitate & all that comes out is her name three times, appearing bruised & soaked in anemic blood behind her own candle. she does not recognize herself.
Published in Transfer Magazine, issue 116, in December 2018.