Inside the dark, hot potbelly
of my uncomfortable mother,
I stirred in pink au jus. In salty
amnio, I grew round, delicious
and thick. My silky ears pickled.
My knuckles and cloven hooves
prickled with finicky hungers.
All new senses of me glorious
tongues budding and licking.
I crackled to life and I kicked her
beneath the floating ribs: Eat,
eat, Woman! Eat! But she halved
grapefruits. She hard boiled eggs.
She sipped thin, bitter black coffee
with no sweet cream. Pained
by the weight of me, she signed
her pregnancy photos in shame.
“Don’t I look terrible?” she asked
the world. She decided early on
to name me, Fat—an inside joke
between her and my father.
And he agreed.