I Consider Violence

When the starvation-hair appears

all over my body, you call it fascinating,

which is not the same as beautiful.

I never decide what to wish for first,

food or you. Or rather, eating food again

or never again eating you. Your favorite part

of me, my cupped hipbone, empty

as a half mango scooped clean of its flesh.

Your least favorite part, my hunger.

I learn to fill myself with other things:

the julienned light in the bedroom, mouthfuls

of Debussy from the old piano, the endless suck

of the toilet, which, bravely, never stops running.

Even vowels become impossible luxuries,

so round they seem indulgent against my tongue.

I consider violence after hearing that on death row

you get one last perfect meal. I imagine the photo

in the newspaper story, where I look so

beautiful.

I think of the woman in the Bible

who asks for John’s head on a platter.

Maybe she was only hungry.

Maybe she wanted to be satisfied.