These are the covers she used

when she cried, when she ate,

when she forgot

the need to eat, when she refused

to eat, when she told herself

eating only prolonged this suffering.

This suffering of knowing

the tongue she bit at four will

never heal, instead throbbing with

each person that exits her life.

These are the covers she tried

to sleep in, night after

midnight after sunrise,

when her people would let themselves

out of their rooms to pray and eat

with cherry-wide mouths.

Who knew she would hear them

chomp on bread, fry bacon?

Tap tap tap goes the dog on the hardwood floor, dog who loves

long walks on beaches and candlelit dinners--as long

as he can shred the meat in seconds with his 15 remaining teeth

He goes back and forth on the floor to convince

the girl to open the door   take him out for a walk

at 4:14 in the morning or nine at night        descends

two stair flights to beat over molecules in the earth

hover over the pompous grass

and rocks with revealed piping and

the sidewalk that has been torn up four times

still not flat...

Who knew they would be so hungry?

Who knew they would be awake.