The Diet

The diet worked like a dream.No sugar,
salt,fat,protein,starch or alcohol.
By the end of week one, she was half a stone
shy of ten and shrinking,skipping breakfast,
lunch,dinner,thinner; a fortnight in,
she was eight stone;by the end of the month
she was skin and bone.

She starved on,stayed in,stared at the mirror
svelter,slimmer.The last apple aged in the fruit bowl,
untouched.The skimmed milk soured in the fridge,
unsupped.Her skeleton preened under its tight
flesh.She was all eyes,all cheekbones,had
guns for hips,not a stich in the wardrobe fitted.

What passed her lips?Air
water.She was Anorexia's true daughter,
a slip of a girl,a shadow,dwindling away.
One day,the width of a stick,she started to grow smaller,
child sized,doll sized,the hight of a thimble.
She sat at her open window and the wind
blew her away.......................




An extract of the poem 'The Diet' by Carol Ann Duffy.
copyright of Carol Ann Duffy.For reference use only