a cascade of thin white bodies.
I dream often of white bodies,
although I’m not asleep
and they aren’t bodies
so much as Q-tips of women
I must have known once
or still know but fell away from,
so addicted they were to starving,
so addicted they were
to one shed pound at a time,
shed first without notice
like parkas in March
and then sweaters
and down through the layers
until I started to wonder but not speak,
until I started to wander my own
layers and forgot,
until they were only socks
and the worn out white bras
and then no layers at all.
Only hoarfrost
and me shouting at dead branches
and snow now burst into a million flakes,
although I’m not shouting
and they aren’t burst so much
as shook out like a blanket of stars
so laden with the skip of my tongue,
so laden they are
that all I can do
is waddle away in disgrace.