She stares into the menu
when we meet for lunch
and announces that
she is only allowed red meat and lettuce.
I ask about carrots and am informed
that they have an unusually high
carbohydrate content.
Later, in the Laundromat,
I eat Pop Tarts and think of
the millions of women worldwide
for whom weight
is not a number, but simply

the way two feet feel pressing into damp earth,
that slippery, rooted feeling of belonging.
Outside, sudden rain colours the asphalt.
The streets shine like a magazine cover.
I am folding a fitted sheet.

(August 5, 2003)