'EAT'

I eat an apple and

           each crunch treats my ear

to a beat, like the bellydance drum solos

           I become, feathers and coins on my hips

to create a space in my body

           for honoring my folds and pleats.

In high school I could never feather

           as a cheerleader, always the base beneath

flying some great tiny gal to heaven.

           Your job is threatening your uniform

my coach bleated at me because I worked

           at a bakery, and, yes, I’d cheat myself

some chocolate pleasures. I hid in sweatshirts

           consumed salads for lunch, hold the meat

and I woke at 5 am to sweat.

           Repeat.

I hid in the back of the theater alone

           like a heathen on Sunday repenting in the last pew

fingers buttered with popcorn and defeat.

           But now the drum permeates my skin

becomes my blood and breath,

           my body defies lineation

swirling, turning like electric weather

           bumping my heat against the air

my arms, snake-like creatures

           beckon rhythm, hips wreathing.

The downbeat teaches me to drop

           into this body, my cellular caveat: stop

the dieting. With each breath

           already one sigh closer to death,

why cling to a word so sheathed in

           die? Emancipate from skinny ideations

and eat.          

Rouse’s chapbook, VANTABLACK, is

available from Third Man Books

.