by Lyn Lifshin
how she longed for
Sally Smith’s long
long legs, thighs
that weren’t always
kissing each other
but let light thru. The
mad girl hated her
fat thighs on benches
for basketball games.
Even at six she scowled
in the mirror seeing
her soft fat thighs
in a bathing suit,
belly she didn’t
believe would always
betray her. She
remembers being
weighed in front of the
class and how Mr.
Dewey belted out
the numbers, how she
weighed more than
most of the boys in the
class. “Chubbette”
an uncle with a clothes
store nagged, “the
regular pre teen skirts
won’t fit you.” But the
mad girl refused. She
would, even pared down,
lying on her bed to zip
jeans at least one
size too small, refusing
to wear anything over
size 0. But it’s the early
days when kids yelled
fat out the window,
worse to her than kike
or two eyes or kinky hair
or book worm. Now she
wishes she could dance
depression out of her,
write this one man
into so many poems in
real life she’ll be too
numb to have feelings
about him, paint him as
dull. Her legs no longer
smack each other as if
applauding or kissing
but hold the little that
is left of her, so light,
almost air, if she danced
with the one she’d
chose, he’d hold her up
and she could easily
follow where ever
he wants her to go
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
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