sometimes,
summer’s hungry is different
in the may of my sixteen
I took a few bites
that’s all, just a few, my
hands replaced by
a knife and an axe
somedays, my thinning
was a violence
you’d have to testify to
if you bared witness but
other days, my thinning
was an artform.
whittle, whittle. this was all for love
and all in vain.
summer’s hungry is still different
I always hope I will wake up
some June afternoon
and be unbelievably skinny again
despite the decade that separates me
from that vehemence
I think the sun fools me into
thinking that I will meet every
autumn with something
to show for summer
no more first-days-of-school
but I still pack for them
my thinner body laying out
with my backpack and gum