by Marge Piercy Last week a doctor told me anemic after an operation to eat: ordered to indulgence given a papal dispensation to run amok in Zabar's. Yet I know that in two weeks, a month I will have in my nostrils not the savor of rendering goosefat, not the burnt sugar of caramel topping the Saint-Honore cake, not the pumpernickel bearing up the sweet butter, the sturgeon but again the scorched wire, burnt rubber smell of willpower, living with the brakes on. I want to pass into the boudoirs of Rubens' women. I want to dance graceful in my tonnage like Poussin nymphs. Those melon bellies, those vast ripening thighs, those featherbeds of forearms, those buttocks placid and gross as hippopotami: how I would bend myself to that standard of beauty, how faithfully would consume waffles and sausage for breakfast with croissants on the side, how dutifully I would eat for supper the blackbean soup with madeira, followed by the fish course the meat cours