Round Things

I’m a happy song,
a bleeding heart,
and a hopeless optimist.

I don’t scare easy,
and I don’t cry long.

I trust.

I saw her last Thursday,
standing atop a dam.
She fell slowly,
A spinning chocolate diamond in the moonlight.

Like a sack of flour.

She wasn’t a thin girl,
or a proper girl,
or anything like you’d expect.

She was big.
Gargantuan,
black,
and happily fat.

Fried anything was her vice,
and she never ate with just one hand.
She was a poet, and a lover, and a dancer.

Our skins were different, and so were our tribes,
and sometimes, I stop and think,
maybe we could have unified our souls.

It was one boy who did it.

Filled her locker with weight loss pills,
placebos his dad ordered,
for a patient.

Filled them up good in empty bottles his mom had used up.
He’d been saving them.

Threw melted shortening,

the thick, white shit,
all over her VW Beetle.

Wrote ‘fat bitch’
out with a thin, white finger.
Dumped a bucket of pork chops on the shortening,
heated it all up with a portable blow torch.

Crazy fuck.

Reduced her to momentum,
to basic physics, when she saw.
But the spirit can fly,
and the soul can’t be measured.

I’m not a violent man.
I’m not a vengeful man.
But I don’t know about Roxie.
Roxie might have been violent.
Roxie might have been vengeful.

Roxie can’t speak,
so I don’t know.
I’ll take my guess.

I’m a pleasant man.
Quick to laughter,
quick to smile.

I’m smiling tonight,
In the campfire light.
Just enough light to see,
his eyes.

Crackle. Crackle.

Pop.

Now I want Roxie,
and no matter how hard I squeeze,
I can’t turn these coals into diamonds.

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