Put It to Rest: poetry month challenge
the moment I learned I was fat
as neat as an ironed hanky
why can’t you cross your legs like your mother?
my thighs burned into the now bluer couch
my cheeks burst in heart pumped red
mother’s legs — folded knee over knee, as neat as an ironed hanky
my brothers — crossed like mine, ankle on thigh
daddy sipped his Saturday afternoon coffee, legs raised on the recliner footer
up to this point, myself, sat
feeling the dark fibers, absorbing them with my sweaty thighs
it was the couch where I used to nestle beside him,
& now a tween
my swirly, festive shorts faded into my younger child’s past
I could not cross my legs like mom
this woman who my sun rose to greet
it did not dawn on me — I am fat
until that Saturday in my shorts, melting into the couch
shaking my leg, afraid to uncross my ankle
to do so would prove him right and he was
