Losing Weight

Five pounds:
     I began ignoring mirrors after 
     Thoreau appeared one night, 
     urging me to gnaw at my bones. 
     You’ll love it, he said, 
     lightly touching my neck. 
     I could feel my spine crawl towards his hands. 

Ten pounds:
     Now my dog leaves the room 
     when I walk in. 
     He’s hurt. 
     He misses the way 
     I’d rub his chin
     and let him lick the spoon.

Fifteen pounds:
     In an infomercial, 
     God said he’d show me how 
     to give up perfection 
     and love myself 
     for only three easy payments 
     of $29.95. 
     I didn’t want to believe
     my body is a thing.

Thirty pounds:
     I saw Moses in my bed. 
     He parted the sheets, asked 
     which side I preferred. 
     So I rolled over and will continue to do so 
     until he tells me I’m finished, 
     or until it’s morning.

Fifty pounds:
     The world got bigger. 
     The Buddha said it would, 
     that it needed to 
     before he could show me how 
     to plant the good seeds, how to eat 
     the good fruit.

BRYANNA LICCIARDI has received her MFA in poetry from Emerson College and is currently pursuing a PhD in Literacy Studies at MTSU. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry QuarterlyBlazevoxDual CoastDos PassosEuphonyGingerbread House, and The Underground. Please check out www.bryannalicciardi.com to read more about her work.
The Adirondack Review
FALL 2015