by Allison Zhang

At thirteen, I began slicing grapes
into fourths, each crescent arranged
like relics on a white plate.
My mother called this discipline. God loves
a girl who suffers without noise.

The priest praised fasting in his sermon,
said it made room for the spirit.
I wrote down calories like commandments,
and on Easter, refused the wafer.
Too holy, I said. My stomach turned

to glass, rang when I moved.
I unzipped myself slowly each night,
rib by rib, soft meat collapsing inward
like rotten pews. The blood came,
as it must, in its quiet red gospel.

My mother said: Purge the body,
not the soul. She meant prayer,
but I cupped my vomit like sacrament
and whispered thanks. I still believe
there is something sacred in hunger.

When the doctor offered me bread,
I thought of Christ in the desert
and turned away. It felt good
to vanish cleanly, like a saint,
or someone mistaken for one.

Allison Zhang is a poet and writer based in Los Angeles. A bilingual speaker of English and Mandarin, she writes about inheritance and the quiet ruptures of daily life. She was a finalist for the Rattle Poetry Prize, and her work appears in ONE ART, Pithead Chapel, and others.