Scheherazade

Make this one about a girl who wastes away. You can tell us
about her growing up, flipping stones out into the driveway
                                                                      with her piano fingers,

but make sure you tell about the wasting; the self-loathing
                                                       with the quiet vigilance of a mailman.

Make her arms as thin as string, her waist turning in to kiss itself.
When the girl can hardly stand now, push her out to the middle of the lake
in a boat, under the wispy arms of the old moon holding

                                                            the absence,
                                             the magnificence of the new moon