Mewling

 (c) 2/25/2025

Most nights I stuff myself, ravenous

for fat, for alcohol, anything

to push my skin outward—

to increase the plane—

the surface--

so that it might be brushed

absentmindedly on the sidewalk,

in doorways.

 

I take opportunities to see the doctor

and though it pains me to be seen

I drop my drawers in a second. 

 

All those mammograms.

The pokes and prods.

Drawn blood. The speculum.

 

As intimate as a pedicure,

a manicure, a massage.

 

In grade school I was the target,

pummeled on the playground

every few days.

 

Maybe that had nothing to do

with their demons.

 

Maybe I was genius—

making myself mewling—

pathetic, a kicked dog.

Maybe I knew

 

it was guaranteed touch.

And Still.

 (c) 2/25/2025

No trip to the Louvre. No fumbling je veux

as we ordered croissants. The plan for Paris never happened.

The week in Tobago, the delicious honeymoon he promised.

All the sea turtles nesting on Irvine Back Bay. No. 

No cross-country trip. And no new couch

even after he ripped the back off my old sofa

 to free his pet corn snake.

 The newest model mustang was repossessed. 

The fake job he listed on the sale document,

that job he so bragged about, no income.

His whole resume a fraud.  Degrees unattained. Positions

never held.  The zirconium wedding ring

to symbolize his love. So much like my father. 

Every year with him was diminishment. And still,

I stayed.