Enough I suppose with the cutting.
One day, you decide to shrink, try
this newness like a crop leather jacket,
fitted and flattering, but transient.
Until you throw it off, against the chair.
Today, though, you like it. For now.
Mathematics inform your mornings: calories,
grams, proteins, fiber. Fats. Small labels, print
in black on white, tiny bibles. Each day neatly
counted, categorized, controlled. I watch the
careful decoupage of your dinner plate, the soft
zen garden your fork leaves. Push, prod, pull.
Weeks pass, your clavicles rise, wrists whittle,
the yielding of your hug teeters toward
a bag of branches. Success, you announce daily,
your reflection recedes. My pleas are victory cries
in your ears, please honey, eat… I might as soon gather
a neap tide in my arms, hold back against the gentle
but inexorable pull of the moon, left with nothing
but salt and seaweed in my useless palms.