Sara chops her lunch into equal sized bites,
moves it around on her plate
                       leaves white spaces
pretends to chew when anyone looks her way,
slides food into her lap.

Sara thinks her belly is as big
as the rising moon, that her thighs rival
those giant Doric pillars on the Parthenon.
Ten pounds down and she could be a runway
model like Anna Reston once was
or Barbara Di Criddo, strut flat-eyed
                             and loved,
a human hanger for size zero dresses.
She doesn’t know her runway is fated
to be a dark graveyard row, her trophy
a bouquet of dead roses.

Sara dreams the mirror tells her she’s beautiful.
She bows to her make-believe audience
holds frail arms out like angel wings for a curtsy,
smiles as her flesh melts down from bone
                                  to fairy dust
                                            to ground.

Priscilla Ann Campbell