DIMINISHING RETURNS

By Jan Moran Neil

I remember taking less

and a little less

stuffing the gap in my gut

with the gap in the words

that were not being served

at the table

where I measured the spoons

for the paying guests

in the room that was shrouded

by conifer trees

and my eyes never cried

but were onions dried and then fried

with my bones as brittle as cracked egg shell,

my breath someone said was over boiled yolk,

my throat sounded like artichoke

so I took a little less

because it was all so hectic

and I overheard cousin Derek say,

“She might be dyslexic,”

but I knew I could read

and that Derek was as thick

as my chunky hips,

so I receded, concealed and never ever

revealed how I was shrinking my shrunk

because it wasn’t worth it:

the growing of tits or the monthly pain,

the disposal of stale-smelling napkins,

so when they released me

to go on French Exchange

the pain au chocolat was devoured

with my eyes and not my mouth,

‘cos I tasted in my head

and they said, Elle mange comme un oiseau,

little sparrow, little sparrow,

and when I flew back I remember

my mother wailed, “Where did she go?”

and taking a little less and a little less

but I never remembered being little

just a big fat mess;

then I remember in the shopping arcade,

a boy saying, “Look at that bird,

she’s dead thin”.

And I’m thinking now, I could have been.

Anorexia. It’s one long non-bleeding sentence.

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