I first read over under fed in unusual
circumstances. On Takapuna Beach, I reclined
shivering on a towel marked ‘HOSPITAL
PROPERTY’, deep in Marguerite’s reflections
on illness, loss and loveliness. She writes in
“when my body was Animorphophallus
titanum”: ‘i wore thermals to the beach in
december’. This was March, and I was freezing
– the result of an unsanctioned swim – on
weekend leave from the Eating Disorders Unit
(EDU).

At the time (and still now) I was so determined
to claw my way out of this illness. Lying on that
beach, I was struck by just how thoroughly
Marguerite has done this – her experience of
anorexia, while undeniably important to the
collection, comes across as simply a star in the
constellation of her life. It is no longer the sun
she orbits around, and I cannot overstate how
profound it is for those still spinning in its grip
to have access to this perspective in poetic form.

Marguerite writes deftly not only of illness, but
of the complexities of life on the other side of it.
The collection is not short on references to things
those who have encountered anorexia will be
familiar with: treatment, liquorice tea, struggling
with ‘normal’ coke, burnt diaries, Fortisip et al.
However, these things are by no means the
focus; instead, they are just one of the many
echoes throughout the collection.

To have been desperately ill, in any sense, leaves
a mark on the sufferer and their loved ones.
The body becomes different; you view it
differently. The human body, all visceral and
fickle, pervades these poems, from nails and
blood to broken teeth, ulcers, plaque, insomnia,
and vomiting. She reflects, ‘i’m angry / at my
body for taking / so long to heal’ (“july poem”).

Underlying this unflinching depiction of the
body, is not only Marguerite’s own experience
with illness, but her mother’s, who lives with
MS. Though it is a very particular set of
circumstances portrayed here, I’m sure it would resonate with most of us – that painful illness
perforates life. Some serious illnesses heal, some
cannot, and most will leave their mark.
Marguerite holds this truth, and balances its
sorrow beautifully.

Marguerite does this, in part, by constructing an
‘i’ that is not abrasive. The collection is in first
person, yet this ‘i’ remains elusive at times.
When we read ‘i dream of the day my eyes / are
the seeds of a green bell pepper’ (“far too blue”),
we understand the intent emotionally, though
perhaps not in a way we can name. The same can
be said for other lovely images in the book, such
as spreading someone’s ugly skirt on toast and
weeping, or ‘an immortal jellyfish / drafting its
seventeenth will’ (“stalling”).

This makes Marguerite’s ‘i’ feels soft and captivating, even
when harsher lines arrive, such as ‘fuck active
recovery / what actual fool promises / to jog on
the spot’ (“shadowboxing a situationship”). By
the end of the collection, the reader feels fond of
and close to the poetic ‘i’, which is never
oppositional, even when strong sentiment is
expressed.

I think this effect is also aided by Marguerite’s
deliberate, specific choices around style and
formatting. The majority of poems are written
with short lines, ranging up to approximately six
words. Similarly, there are few capital letters,
and even fewer commas. This gives the book a
particular aesthetic with a dreamy feel. As a
reader, you are immersed in the poetic ‘i’’s
perspective and style, and despite the at times
confronting subject matter, it feels like a safe
place to be.

Another thing Marguerite balances well is loss
and, over under fed’s key term, loveliness. In
particular, the collection dwells on entering into
closeness, as well as losing relationships with
those you were once close to. In both, there is an
emphasis on connections missed. In
“shadowboxing a situationship” the word
‘aching’ is repeated, and in the poems on this
topic, hands, limbs, and fingers make recurrent
appearances – there is a sense that there is a
connection missing that touch itself cannot
restore. It puts me in mind of the Nick Cave and
the Bad Seeds lyric ‘but there was a chord in you
/ I could not find to strike’.2

Conversely, the relationships Marguerite reflects
on losing seem to have struck chords, but for
various reasons, could not last. Marguerite thinks
‘about the friends / i wasn’t allowed to keep… i
don’t / know if they are alive now i hope they are
/ doing gorgeous things’ (“discharge notes (iv)”).
There is something almost unnameable about
being ill alongside someone, then having no way
of knowing if they are still here. Especially when you have lost people to that same illness, as
Marguerite alludes to. I say ‘almost
unnameable’, because although it remains
unnamed in Marguerite’s writing, she manages to
communicate the incorrigible feeling of it.

Another such feeling is remembering those who
helped you to get better, even against your
wishes. Marguerite considers writing to her
former treatment team, ‘thinking i should / thank
them for everything they did for me’ (“discharge
notes (i)”). But how do you thank people who
hurt you to save you? This is something many of
us who contend with illness must wrestle with,
and while Marguerite does not resolve this
tension (who could?), she finds a way to make
peace with it.

She does so by taking illness, loss, and tension,
and wrapping it in loveliness. She creates a
specific, safe, and confronting 80 pages, expertly
crafted. In the final instance, she does this by
listing an important 19 names, at the very end of the book, perhaps fulfilling a sentiment
expressed earlier that ‘i don’t think a body ever /
forgets a lovely woman’ (“discharge notes (i)”).
And as readers, we won’t forget this either. 

2 “Jesus of the Moon”, Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!, Mute Records, 2008.