Universe Folds are Fat
My fat rolls don’t hurt anymore. They used to cut me everyday where skin folded to touch skin folded, cut the slice I gave myself. More I exercise and decompress, less inclined to explain my fat folds.
I talk about my right hand numb from carpal tunnel or fat from my arm — feeling —
if I got skinnier, my fingers might type prettier words and I could complain how others don’t understand my beauty; how hard life is with people who don’t understand
What it’s like to — give sly looks —
except I get looks now! Men look me up and down on the street, say, “Fat girls need love, too.” If my rolls didn’t remind me the world wouldn’t let me forget:
I occupy space, here are my cuts Folding existence.
Lollipop Moth
…sleep that later breaks and frays as wings
sluggish as oars
begin to bludgeon the heavy air…
B.H. Fairchild, “Moth”
Scientist created a foot capable of stomping nutrients into the ground. The nutrients sprouted plant to plant, the bees and other insects sucked up the plant’s enzymes: thus the change began.
Pigments changed reds to purples to blues.
One moth was blue and red flapping purple tipped wings, hard candy sheen, smooth as glass.
A young boy saw this moth in his grandmother’s empty closet, peered at the lollipop shine and the moth grew teeth bloated three times larger than original, and sucked a vein in the young boy’s arm; he collapsed from the loss of so much blood, the moth grew as large as his palm, skittered across his elbows, forearm, then flew to his knee.
This young boy sat and stared at the moth, shimmering like a lemon drop, wondering how he got here. Would anyone find him?
*
This young boy’s eyes fluttered, faltered, and fell on his cheek; his breath slowed, dizzy headed.
He pushed air from his diaphragm, through his esophagus, across his tongue and teeth produced a cicadas‘ roar in summer heat. His older brother ran into their grandmother’s room, found him; cradled him; slung him over shoulder; then ran to the scientist who produced the foot that caused all the trouble.
∞
Brigid Clare works with people with Autism by day and a graduate student by night in West Virginia Weslan College’s program. She’s obsessed with Anime, Charles Simic, and her cat, Thomas. She hopes to marry her current profession as a Behavior Technician with her goals as a writer, making space for all voices.
