If I must die, let it be at my goal weight

A poem by Madeline Grace.

At the start
of World War I,
ammunition factories
did not have enough
steel—reserves 
were depleted
by the corset industry.
Hell-bent 
on freedom,
soldiers wage war
against their waists.
We all want
to wear the uniform,
to obey 
battle orders
plotted by men
in secret rooms.
So we fall in line
waiting for rations—
killing whales
to build new cages
for our insolent ribs,
taking bony knees
to pledge allegiance
to the hallowed & hollow.
War is all around us—
hungry, alive. 
On the front lines,
we calculate
our macros
with sniper’s precision.
We work to please
the State 
to which 
we have sworn 
our brief, 
beautiful lives,
or sworn 
to die
trying.