Bulbous

i.

			When I say I am fat
			standing in your parlor,

I stand tall in that parlor
as you close doors and shut blinds.

			You, blind, shut, closed,
			tell me fatness is not meant for lawns, porches, mountaintops, 

forget a fat lawn, a fat porch, a fat mountain
find your home in the den of groundhogs.

			You tell me my home is buried. 
			You call me comfort and cushion. 

You call me matron and Buddha —
anything but fat. 

			You beg this body anything but.
			It is fat, I said. 


				
ii. 

			This fat is not one in which I seek pride
			but courage to believe I belong. 

I belong in courage
even as I hide my tears in the night.

			Night tears unhidden
			by Mother Earth’s comforting girth. 

Earth’s girth births ecosystems. 
No one can palm the weight of her surface. 

			Her depths unfathomed and unheld.
			All the demons she, too, has swallowed.

Demons swallowed in the name of love, 
unraveled in her core.

			Her core’s gravitational pull unravels
			my fat’s prideful seeking. 
iii. 

You do not wait for me to expunge
that seared unto my underbelly

			are my underbelly creeks —
			a grand canyon bottom,

a grand rift bottom.
L’eau de vie rolls on and wards away shallow waters,

			shallow waters who beg for the life
			the moon attracts between my rubbing thighs,

thighs that love the moon to sliver
as tides rise.	
		
			Risen tides pulse
			in my patient veins,

my veins that do not wait
for whatever you must expunge.


				
iv. 

An invisible hand stuffs its fingers down my throat. 
I am led to more consumption. 

			Consumption leads me 
			if I can’t listen to the Mother. 

Not listening to nature,
I’m good for the economy. 

			Too good for the economy, 
			Adam Smith casts a chastity belt. 

Adam eves my sex’s cleft.
My initials engraved chaste.

			Chastened grave becomes me–
			unsilts my earthen body. 

Soiled by corporation—
a visible hand clenches my throat.
v. 

			What do I know of making love?
			Except to see the manure in my friends’ lives. 

Seeing my friends’ shit, 
I point to the blossom’s bloom. 

			The blossom’s bloom is not the fruit
			but what do I know of birth?

Birth boasts a knowing: 
I am here. 

			Here I am in courage.
			What do I know of courage?

Known courage
necessitates choice. 

			I must now choose
			what I know of making love.
vi. 

I tell you I am fat
and I do not wait.

			Forbear this weight
			without sympathy and concern

fallen eyes and knitted brow
redirection and befuddlement

			beefed up and direction toward
			the else and other things I am.

The thing I am saying
is I cannot sit in this chair.

			This chair will break.
			And I am tired of weak arms,

arms that cannot hold me
when I tell you I am fat.