To My Young Anorexic Friend

Tracey,
When I look at your legs-
The bruises the hollows the blueblack and white
The nearness of bone to skin…
They look to me like the frail hindquarters
Of an adolescent doe
That, say,
My youngest cousin
Shot in a spastic rush
Of desire
For the praises of uncles.

Hunting season.
A boy’s first kill.

Now it is the season of thanks giving
And grandmother resurrects that frozen kill
From the meat freezer
Lays it to thaw on the countertop:
The lean hindquarters
Of a doe
Too young to die.