“If only I could…” “You’re not old enough.”
“But all I really want…” “You’ll have to wait.”
More singular than Beauty’s rose and tough
as diamonds to secure, I dedicate
intelligence to choosing strategy
and tactics so my body will be well.
That’s all I’m asking presently of me:
the only thing I heard nobody tell.
Too many years to decades grown and passed
have witnessed me recording all the rules
I fabricated to defy. At last
there’s light to recognize the dance of fools
who formulate a tumble in the hush
behind the vacuum of the toilet’s flush.
Self-medication is the norm for me
to lever out of this reverse plateau
of dismal mood, abysmal density,
of slogging in an attitude so low
or lonely I don’t even know what’s worse:
a dearth of all excitement, silent, skewed;
or company, which often brings the curse
considerate disrupting solitude.
Oh there were decades when I turned to weed,
or begged narcotic tablets from my friends,
or sought with Scotch and sex the little death
that tempers lulls and rage. Today I need
to self-prescribe a cure that comprehends
the benefits of exercise and breath.
I speak for every female ever fat
in mind, in mood, in belly, butt and thighs.
Presumptuous pronouncements are my chat
and this apparent fitness my disguise.
For I am fat in memory and fears
beneath the slender shape I work to be,
and I remember all those hateful years
when I felt thinner than the truth of me.
I speak for every look at form and face
we give ourselves, reality or role,
and emphasize the quality of grace
that lets us see the myth of self-control.
But most of all, I open mouth to tell
the awful loneliness of feeling well.
Like raindrops running down a window pane
to gather in a puddle on the sill,
like yarn that’s knitted in a curly chain
to form a knotless cloth against the chill,
like beads pushed one by one upon a string,
together building jewelry out of spheres,
like minutes massing into months, that bring
us coursing through the incidental years,
so I need several days to form a trend.
The first a point, the next a line implies.
It takes a third to make the series bend,
and indicate where my intention lies.
I therefore name today the glad director
that indicates three days have formed a vector.