Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe

Pro-Ana

They dream of blood no longer red, nor pink, nor grey,

clear like aloe gel or water, circling a slowing heart.

Bones lengthen, soften, bend at will.

Skin smooth, and tight, over ribs, counted with anxiety

each night before the dream, like transcendental equations.

The answer never comes out just right. 

They watch clock hands, carrots, lettuce, broccoli, lemon juice, saccharine packets

fall like laundry powder, like flakes of hissing, violent snow around their upturned faces.

They look at pictures, long legs and arms,

in dresses, shirts, brassieres and boots.

They see their bodies sliced up at last

in perfect, tiny, thin lozenges

shaped like triangles of cake

or cards, flat cards they are,

with pictures of the major and minor arcana

dealt out in a cross

Their bodies are shuffled, cut three times, 

laid out, gathered, and read as fortunes, answers to a question,

picked up in a pile, placed in a box, lined with linen, clean and pure, where they lie at last

gasping with relief

until their voices force the quickening, and there they are - 

just the same as they were before - 

no cuts

no cross

no cake