I think of the rabbi’s

methodical voice,

how I haven’t been

to a Hebrew lesson in a month,

how whenever I mention anything

about it, my mother just says,

It’s your father’s job to deal with this.

I can’t remember one prayer.

I try to think where the tape

of the rabbi speaking the prayers is.

I search my room in my mind.

Past the second tower,

I feel the heaviness of San Francisco,

invisible in a mass of swollen fog.

I think about Pick in Australia now.

I wish he was here.

I picture Jorge, alone at the beach.

I think about Lisa, the nursery,

sand on my feet, clay between my fingers,

my sleeping mat and pictures of robots taped all around it.

My old body melting away.

My white T-shirt, loose

over my middle.

My shorts that used to be tight

are so baggy that my legs

don’t press against the seams at all.

We pass the Presidio, once an old army post,

huge artillery batteries turned into

living museums, and airstrips

restored into wetlands and grassy fields,

a huge park stretching all along the bay

green and alive in the wet air,

one of my favorite places

in the city.

We drive into the Marina,

past the long, low rows

of art deco houses

my mother always points out,

until we turn, at last,

to the street where

our apartment is.

Through the bay window,

I see the huge clay sculpture

of a woman’s head

looking out at the street,

and it makes it feel

a little like home

even though I feel so different.

Level 2: Ongoing Weight Loss

The first thing I do

when we get back

to our apartment

is weigh myself.

21 pounds.

21 pounds less

than when I started.

I rest at the mirror again,

stare into an unfamiliar face.

Less chin now,

square jawbones,

the puffed slope

of my cheek

slides into

a less dimpled mouth.

I turn sideways,

suck in my belly.

There has never been

a time where I haven’t held it in.

My love handles

rise over my shorts,

but they are smaller now,

barely enough to squeeze.

I go to the breakfast table.

It’s just my mom and me.

Level two, she says. It begins today.

She sets down her copy

of The Diet Book,

dog-eared,

raises a cup of coffee at me in victory,

slides a bowl of cottage cheese,

and a pewter dish with twenty-four almonds.

I bite into halves

so they last longer.

Old Photo

My mother searches through

endless boxes of papers,

and finds an old photo

of a time in New York,

at P.S. 6,

where once I played

the part of a king

in a school play.

Other kids

wore cardboard armor

and swords made of tinfoil.

But as the king, I wore

a costume my proud parents rented me.

King Henry the Eighth,

red velour with golden trim,