to my beloved anorexic   You want to be a saint of self-control, a hero of denial, apart and pure, unassailed by appetites: single, whole. The logic seems so tortured. What obscure back-alley calvary of yours exacts such a monopoly of roles — that’s you the nailed martyr, you the Roman lackey with the hammer, you the jeering mob, you the inward-lit vaporous soul to rise above the devastation of the flesh, and you to kneel before the mirror prize of withered perfection. That is, unless you see that life itself is fat as day — love is the food that you’re pushing away.     © Michael Fleming Munich, Germany July 1992