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.