This is day I don’t know, and I don’t care of
the Ideal Protein Diet,
and just like any regimen of relinquishment and confession,
there are catchphrases
that keep the penitent motivated to continue
traversing a path littered with sharp pebbles and rusty bottle caps.
Scabby knees and bloody palms propelling the seeker closer to
the promised land.
My “coach” smiles benevolently as I remove my socks
and step on the scale.
“every pound has a story”
are meant to convey comradery and conviviality.
We are soldiers
in this war against fat,
and I can “tell her anything”.
But I resist,
because I have already told those stories,
and my secrets died with my therapist,
which is both ideal . . .
Now I am here, in this strip mall
taking off my socks
in front of a stranger.
And the nail polish on my big toe
And I am melting
like the Wicked Witch,
while thousands of miles from here,
my mother is being eaten alive by cancer.
Maybe by the time her funeral rolls around
I will be thin,
but not too hungry for anything.