She’d notice how her stomach rolls over the desk
more than freshman year,
as if a tidal wave of cholesterol crashed
the graffitied confessional—
Anna loves Jose
sprawled beside the answers to last semester’s
She’d feel how walking up three flights of stairs
bastes her bovine body in a glazed sweat
generally reserved for the embarrassment of
getting undressed for P.E.
She’d surmise the summer diet didn’t work.
Love her mother just a bit less for lying to her.
Curse the concept of heredity, the misnomer of “big-boned,”
feeling the need to apologize to the chair
for her girth.
She’d work on the essay assigned describing
who she is/what makes her happy.
And when her double hamburger-stained hand gets tired,
she’ll take a break and stare at the teacher
sitting at his desk in the back of the class
I heard he’s a poet. He’s typing pretty fast…
He looks like a good man.
(originally published in Scythe)