POETRY
The Night I Sank the 8 Ball
by Caroline DePalma

After he decides every snicker from his lips
is about me and I decide that every song in
contemporary rock music means him, we join
two friends in the search for each other. Earlier
that day,
I was sprinting around the local high school track
trying to sweat off enough fat rolls to fit into
the new green shirt that reflected my eyes. I hadn't
eaten in three days, but somehow
that wasn't long enough. He deserved to trace the bones
of my wrist with his thumb when
he guided the pool stick in my hand. I wonder how
long it will take for him to realize
I'm only playing for him.

Our two friends are there,
dressed in all black, denying
this is actually a date. The baseball game drowns
out my voice. He casually slides his chair
closer to mine and blames it on the hypothetical
bodies that "might need to get through." I
bite my cheeks to the point of
drawing blood, half in order to shut out the hunger pains
and half because I'm thrilled this conversation has lasted
more than five minutes.

For the first time in months, I
want a sandwich without a side of guilt
and he just wants out of this predictable, drunken
social scene. There's a part of me
that suspects he knows my secret,
and that part of him tells
Erica Morgan to shut up when she cracks
a joke about barely being able
to see me since I've lost so much
weight since high school. I tell her I've still got a
long way to go, and as she walks forward to
hug me, he stops her by encircling his arms
around me from behind to hold up my jeans—

without once complaining about my protruding
hip bones that I know are
jabbing into his forearm.