1
Early in the morning, I ghosted
into the white tile bathroom, stripped—
even my jewelry—
drove myself to vomit, spit,
and defecate, shook out the ounces of my breath,
and took my weight. I avoided my crooked
reflection in the silver towel rack.
The worst days, I pondered quarters
of pounds harbored in my tonsils and my hair.
Eighteen summers, I silently mined
my body, seeking the fossil
of my skeleton inside me.
My mother watched me swallow
syruped squares of French toast.
She knew and didn’t know.
My death dangled on the edge
of every conversation,
a desperate drop on a cup’s rim.
Humans facing death in youth
try to swallow everything, cry injustice,
make wishes, hold their breath.
Dogs refuse food. When Sophie,
our Labrador, faced her end too soon,
my mother crawled beside her
with warm beef stew and my soft
baby spoon. The dog died,
salivating.
2
I walked down the aisle with whale bones
circling my ribcage. I pictured the whale
vomiting Jonah onto the beach.
I had never purged in church
until that day. God was alive
in those years and I knew
he saw me, corseted,
flowers fastened in my hair,
and looked away.
My husband tells me years later
the horror
of my torso from the room’s other end.
I feel proud,
but do not
say it.
3
My doe-eyed mutt stands in the corner
of the bathroom, watching me heave
my whole life into the toilet
on all fours. I suspect she’s always thought
we were the same—that I was
just another sort of dog
until this moment. She knows now,
I am a different animal entirely:
a creature dragging back
to its own ooze, a broken beast, rotten
with a sickness she can smell. And she
can’t tell a soul.
After I’ve scrubbed my hand,
my weak teeth, I kneel again
and pat my knee.
Because she is a dog, she comes quickly
and fills my palms with her heavy head.
Starving, I let her love me.