washed away into waste.

My body remembers,

especially my tongue,

the way the crust of pizza

marries the cheese and sauce.

My body remembers

the juicy splendor

of an orange cut open,

the creaminess

of a banana,

an apple dipped in honey.

My body remembers

a night in the city

when my father

handed me a five,

sent me down the street

for Hostess cupcakes

and lemon fruit pies.

But my body also remembers

hands that push

and reach, back and forth,

because a kid my size can take it.

My body remembers

the tetherball court,

too many names, too many hands,

too many voices in the circle

around the game.

My body remembers

the crying rage,

throwing Jay to the ground,

fist after fist

and the solid knock

of knuckles and flesh

and blood and blond hair

and wiry braces.

My body remembers.

My body is fighting itself,

and in its desperation,

it’s eating its fat.

There Is a Space

In the morning,

when I put on my shorts,

I feel something odd.

There is a space, no bigger than

the tip of my pinkie,

between the waistline of my shorts

and my body.

I put my finger inside the space

and walk outside

beneath the grape arbor.

I whisper to myself,

in a sacred tone,

It’s working.

I check all day

to see if the space is still there.

How Many Pounds?

The scale

lives in the kitchen,

so on Fridays

I step onto it

and write down on a sticky note

the number it says.

After one week,

the number is lower by two.

Studio Days

Every day with Pick and Lisa,

we make art,

shoot bows and arrows,

do chores.

We carry moist clay bricks,

twenty-five pounds each,

into stacks at the back

of the gallery, place them

where the Artist needs them.

One brick a week for us.

We work on our trolls,

fill shelves

and empty spaces

with mischievous creatures.

At lunch, I eat burgers with no buns,

and salad, bring cheese-and-meat roll-ups wherever I go.

Pick and Lisa try to eat like I do.

I tell them they don’t have to,

and sometimes they share bags of chips

or candy, but they try their best

not to do it around me,

and I am starting to feel stronger.

Each week, I weigh myself.

I slowly watch the numbers change.

At night we watch the stars swirl

through the skylight,

listen to the sounds of people

walking around town.

Sometimes we open the studio

and have art shows.

We talk about our dreams,

pretend they are windows into the future.

We gather at the breakfast table,

a circle of prophets.

Lisa talks about a dream

where I’m wearing a white-and-green

Hawaiian shirt, and I’m skateboarding

in a school parking lot.

In the dream, she says, I am half of myself.

I smile, try to imagine it,

and for the first time,

it feels possible,

but I wonder