Another anorexia glose

“Burn it up on re-entry, burn it,
burn it. So she trains
 
with weights, she jogs, she runs,
as if the sky were falling.”
– ‘The Wasting Game’, Philip Gross
 
She’s a heart of ice, streaking through
the bloodstream of vacuous space.
She’s a meteor, shoots alone
with target precision and pace.
Burn it up on re-entry, burn it.
 
She revolves a constant orbit,
tries to enter our atmosphere
but the force is too strong, a pulse
of solid ice, anger and fear.
Burn it. So she trains
 
her mind in rituals of control,
carves fractal perfection of bone.
She build a woman of snowflakes,
shapes an ice body of her own:
with weights, she jogs, she runs
 
a death dance in exactitude.
She’s lost in the infinity
of three-dimensional space, spins
a desperate web of safety
as if the sky were falling.