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.