where the bite taken out

is white like cartoon apples.

The broccoli pleads

with giant eyes

to be eaten two to four times daily.

There are dancing grapes

and carrot sticks

and breads pushed to the back,

near a lonely triangle

of forgotten pizza.

The doctor comes in.

His skin is made

of glossy magazine pages

and his hair is brown paper.

He has me step on the scale.

He has me stand against the wall.

He has me try to touch my toes.

From this position,

he takes an instrument

like thin pliers

and presses them gently

to my sides. Cold, I flinch,

not from the pain

but from the memory of the pain.

When he sees the sores,

deep purple and black,

his breathing changes,

and he whispers

in a doctor’s voice,

How did this happen?

I answer by holding up my hands,

pushing my thumbs into my fingertips.

He nods.

He is careful to avoid

the sores,

the huge purple bruises.

He moves me from the bench to a chair,

goes to a drawer,

removes a package

of folded papers,

some glossy plastic and cardboard wheels,

and other packages full of colors.

He asks my mom into the room

and for the next thirty minutes

she nods and writes stuff down.

The doctor spins the wheel,

which is actually five wheels,

each a different color,

talks about points,

and colors meaning points,

and points meaning gaining

or losing weight.

He talks about targets

and colors that are pie pieces.

Spins the wheels

in different directions

to where a whole pie

filled with mostly green slices

sits at the center.

Thirty pounds, he says.

I need you to lose at least thirty pounds.

I hold the wheel, spin the different sections.

It smells like paint

and plastic,

a mutated rainbow,

an impossible request.

My arms out,

he fills them up with posters

and a button with the mutated rainbow on it.

On the way to the nursery,

my mother hatches plans.

We’ll buy a juicer, she says.

Broken Promise

We never buy a juicer.

The Answer?

She stands over the bed,

cradles a book in her arms,

rocks it like a baby.

I have it, she says. I’ve got it.

She holds up a yellow book.

There’s a man in a suit on the cover

sitting at a desk.

I knew this doctor in the sixties

in New York. I did a portrait

of his wife.

This doctor wrote a diet book!

It really works!

She uncradles the book,

looks at the cover,

and spins it onto the bed.

I lift it,

hold it in both hands,

feel the compact weight

of the book.

When my feet hit the floor,

she explains how it works.

She talks about carbohydrates

and how evil sugar is.

The more she tells me

the more I realize that this diet

isn’t like any other.

It’s the end of bread,

potato chips, cookies,

cereal, and even pizza.