Let me tell you a story of

Starvation as prayer.

Nest of negative space
Home built upon fault lines.
Floor plans
Of the empty spaces on her.
Ever expanding, renovated.
Construction permit written in lipstick.
Bones
Grown wasted.
Warped with winters only known by time.
Saturated in longing.
Wooden doors no longer close properly.
Locks long parted from skeleton key.

A slow reduction of her fruit
Simmered with sugar over low flame
Ever present threat of burn.

Escoffier never translated
Carême’s recipe for
How to not love the wrong ones.
She’s at a loss,
Contemplating the consequence
of her weak American heart.

The Baumé of her blood.

Inverted. Caramelized
Maillard reaction of soul
in the presence of protein.
and flame.

Dispersed in solvent of poem.
Osmosis of ache and oxygen.

Hidden. Rhizomatic.
(These blooms lie.
Ask her, instead,
of what lives beneath the soil of her story.)

Medical chart diagnosis:
Love-letter induced delusion.
Prescription for
human contact and/or casual sex
recommended.
(Though, insurance will likely not cover cost of plane ticket, options limited)
Grief of love not yet lost.
Grief of something not love,
Just, not.

Dissolving her own skin.
Flesh eating fit of numb.
Less of her left to miss him.

When the shop owner asked
Where she went.
She meant the unnecessary parts of the girl.
The hips. The breasts.
Stores of energy carelessly spent.

The girl answered,

Amsterdam?
Or something.
Lost in transit by a Dutch mailman.
Floating somewhere in an ocean.

Washing up on the sand at Coney Island.

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