I picture the single pound of water weight
I’ve gained today melting off in the shower
as I nudge the faucet westward—
some horizon’s underwater sun, I summon.
To go heavenward, you must be light
enough to float.
My mother says my face looks healthy now,
she says she was worried about me.
But she wasn’t worried when I was alone
with the toilet looking up at me
the way I’d learn to look up at my lovers—
waiting for bile.