Skinny Girl

by Angela Gaito-Lagnese

Daughter-mother bonding over Dexatrim.

Sleep on an empty stomach, she says. Starving 

is the one thing they can’t take away.

I am twelve. We clip neatly printed diet plans 

from Ladies’ Home Journal, slip them 

under magnets on the refrigerator door.  

I don’t even like food anymore.

Pre-dawn race to the ballfield, damp air, 

slight wind, one lap, then two, then three, past the edge 

of the goal posts, reach the fence, tag the corners. 

I don’t talk enough, everyone says, four laps, five, my shadow 

pulls westward, neck stretching too long, sharp jutting chin, 

head swollen with words, but no one is listening. 

Seven, eight, nine laps, not like other children, 

ten laps, eleven, does she have any friends? 

My knees are pumping, the sun is rising.  

At home, legs splay across the worn knobby carpet, 

forehead to shins, breathe out, breathe in, 

sit-ups and push-ups, squats and planks, 

a spin of motion that feels like praying. 

Light on the charts by the 7th grade weigh-in. Hips, 

shoulder blades, spine stand at attention. A full audience,

gym teacher, school nurse, dream girls, a loose 

semi-circle, clapping and whistling.