Serenade for the bulimic, a poem

Behind the kitchen steps,

you empty yourself

into a concrete cochlea.

Your stomach lining is

the same color as

the clouds slicing

your cheekbones, and

I wonder if you can remember

the morning

you first noticed

the skin between your thighs,

pulled taut,

like a rigid smile.

Or the mornings before that,

when potato-chip salt

crawled beneath our nails,

gritty as broken glass.

Did you know that

the moon, varnished

by the glaze in your eyes,

will turn to dust?

The clouds burn red.

Finished, you leave your guts

in the parking lot,

like a crime scene,

a sexy cop show.

Like a memorial, at least,

for the years I once knew.