BEFORE RECOVERY

How did I do it? Saying no was a privilege
            I couldn't refuse. I was a slack
suit of clothes, a treadmill's dry tongue
            lapping itself up. Empty as a sky,
more than once I fed the dog more dinner
            than myself. More than once I threw
the kitchen door open and tasted the air:
            unmowably green, green of graze,
of let go. I considered the caloric content
            of the air I'd eaten. There's hunger
and then there's hunger, sharpened. 
            The butter knife then the bread knife.
I emptied out even my voice. I was a gashed
            screen. I was the dog slipping through.
On my knees to pray, I chewed my gums
            instead, chewed the inside of my mouth
into shreds. The problem is many things
            taste good and good together. If I want
to write about an animal, I must choose
            between thousands of species—some
eat grass to survive. Some eat to vomit.

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NECESSITY

Any closer to the light now,
                        I'd be light, lighter, less than one
            foot on the ground at a time.
                                    If the sky, known for raining,
doesn't, does that make me a fool
            for expecting rain? As I run

                        my throat burns
like trying not to blink.
            I have eyes all over my face
                        & it hurts them to watch the wind slap me.
            The wind hurts too—
                        I got in its way, configuring
                        the air into sorry, sorry.

Ever live somewhere until you become it?
                        Motion is a place I invented.
When my mother was the known enemy of my mother,             
            we both ran from her, her regret-bone
jointing to her rage-bone.
            Adrenal spike. Strike one.
                                    Strike two.

She was first beautifully in motion, then fatigued
                        like a split almond.
                                    I died trying
                                    to touch her.
            She said, take that wishbone
                                    out of your mouth.
                                                She said, answer me.

            She touched my calf
                        & I shrank down to the calf.
            She touched my face & I became her face.
Slant rain touched the slant roof—
            I knew this meant my future
but what are others to anyone?

            Both my feet touch
                        the sidewalk, gentler.
The gutter has made itself a small pond—
            what a thing to decide for yourself.

            I think I'll invent
                        a new meteorology device:
                          a single sheet of paper.
            At the top I'll write good & bad.

Under each, the same two names.
                        Gutter, a habitat.
                        Sky, a wall papered with doors.

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on "Before Recovery": "Anorexia" literally means "absence of appetite." I think this is a misnomer. I would define "anorexia" as "appetite for absence."

on "Necessity": I wanted to write about a daily activity, so I wrote about running and ended up with a poem about my mother. I don't really know how to write about my mother, which may be why I keep doing it.