It took me a while to hear
the term “binge watching”
without flinching, remembering
my binge eating
on East Fifth Street—Cheese
Doodles or corn muffins—
whatever was plentiful
and on sale at the bodega.
I’d wash it all down
with Diet A&W Cream Soda—
two-liter bottles, always
discounted and dusty
on a back shelf—then open
the bathroom window,
no matter how cold,
and throw it all up
before my roommate Anne
came home. I’d scrub
my face and say no thanks
when she asked
if I wanted pizza for dinner.
We were grad students,
too poor to have a TV,
no place to put it anyway
in that cramped one bedroom
where the leaky radiator
hissed at me in disappointment.
I slept in the living room,
no door, just a beaded curtain
separating me from the kitchen,
food wrappers shoved
into the bottom of my backpack.
Sometimes Anne and I went out
to the Pyramid or Limelight,
dancing wildly, where I hoped
to lose weight. Sometimes
we’d play Scrabble and I’d score
a bingo. But after a binge
I’d tell her I had to do homework
or grade papers written by my own
students. There was no such thing
as a streaming service back then,
but sometimes I’d watch
myself from the ceiling,
leaving my body entirely
as I pretended to read,
deep breathing
minty mouthwash
and trying to ignore
the delicious smell of her slices
from Ray’s. I can’t believe
you have such discipline,
Anne laughed. Look at me
always pigging out.
