Every day for a week she pukes
in the shower. First the tile's
carnival tilt, then the warm rush
of bile swirling around her feet.
The purple bean grows, wild
cells tethered to a flesh cage.
Her secret consumes her;
she begins the fast. Hovers at family
picnics wanting to eat the other girls'
smiles: a taste like icing. Someone gushes
Look how thin you are
and she dashes upstairs and strips, lies
on the bed, hands testing her womb.
On the porch below, an aunt turns
the meat�s raw side to the fire.
The long fork glistens with grease. Inspired,
she throws herself onto the sharp back
of the desk chair. Prays for blood,
a frantic climb to grace.