The Fat Woman Gets Religion
Belief in miracles is born of need,
and here I am. Touch me, and I would bleed
chocolate. I’m a monument to sweets.
Craving, not reason, watches what it eats.
Though not yet mad, I feel what Hamlet felt
and long for this too solid flesh to melt.
So Lord, who gave us Food and then the Fall,
out of the depths of my own flesh I call:
Spare me the diet, work-out tape, and gym—
make me as slender as the seraphim.
Save me from gustless food and chalky drink.
Stretch out your hand. Touch me, and I will
The Price of Everything, The Edwin Mellen Press,
© 2001. Originally printed in Staple
by permission of the author.