weight watchers

the ice cream sandwiches in the fridge
were worth 3 weight watchers points which
meant nothing to me as a 7-something-year-old.
the sexy "skinny-cow" sprawled out on the box with
the measuring tape snaking around her waist
like a constrictor. i woke up in the middle of
the night to check on her, to ask her how
she managed to pull her waist in like
a draw-string bag. Jean, the woman who started 
weight watchers, would gather meetings in
her living room-- desperate women in a circle,
a seance to summon the sugar out of their
bones. i'm fascinated by her with her plastic
black & white barbie hair. i imagine her
husband as a door frame, her up at night
giving sleep-less manicures to the doorknobs.
she's smiling in photographs, big, like a 
slice of moon. i see her in the kitchen. 
she hides mallow-mar bars in the cupboard--
eating frantic over the trashcan. they used
to make these tiny chocolate cakes that were
worth 2 weight watchers points & i'd peel 
the numbers off before eating them--
wrapper crinkling in the sink. you are sitting
at the kitchen table asking
again if you doing weight watchers made me 
anorexic & i'm trying to convince you that it didn't.
there's the lovely Jean with her weekly
recommended slab of liver-- stuffing the organ
in the blender to make it go down easier.
she had two husbands (as one does)
& the second was a bass player like my brother.
i see him in the corner of the living room,
walking the instrument-- two fingers thrumming 
string. he lets his wife work. she's openning
all the windows downstairs to call the women 
inside-- they've been moth-smacking against
the windows, all in their nightgowns looking
like moths. the shelves in the living room 
are lined with  weight watchers guides & i used
to page through them mindlessly. here is how
to determine the point value of a slice of
pizza, a roll of sushi, a cup of tikka masala.
Jean starts reading from it &  i cover my ears.
you tell me to go up to bed but the staircase
closes like an esophagus-- tongues flicking
for steps. her first husband is here now,
begging for her back & you cover my ears 
& tell me not to listen. in the living room
the furniture all turns into ellipticals
& you get on. Jean tells us that it's never
too young to start getting healthy. she picks
her mouth off the end table to smile. 
how many weight watcher points is this worth?
i ask the wall of food catalogs & they flush 
like butterflies or geese-- flapping mad up into
the attic. this isn't your fault. this isn't
your fault. the pumpkin pie in the oven 
spits numbers on the kitchen floor. you make
it every year & it's my favorite pumpkin pie
even though it's a weight watcher's recipe. 
Jean's there to pick the numbers up & press them into
the crust. i don't blame her-- i don't blame her.
i see her ghost crouched in a full-length mirror--
running her fingers across the soft skin of 
her stomach. i ask you to help me break it
& we toss the thing off the side of the deck--
glass all over the driveway. we eat two ice cream
sandwiches. leave one in the ice box for her.