Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.

The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey-carts full

Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and *****,

Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes

Of turtle-dark green.
Chooose an egg-shape, a world-shape,

Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon :

Cream-smooth honeydews,
Pink-pulped whoppers,

Bump-rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.

Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds

To strew like confetti
Under the feet of

This market of melon-eating
Fiesta-goers.

I’ll drape these stone ovals across my fragile face across from the crazy catastrophe of the conversation occurring around my consciousness – in my consciousness, cause that’s the residence of my empty pail into which all can discard their stupid say-so’s and I’ll absorb them because I have little else to do and I won’t complain and I won’t restrain myself, I won’t stifle my snide judging resentment because I need to share the poison that resides in the topmost part of my body except for when I’m laying down or doing handstands. These stone ovals allow me to see just how blind I am, just how many things I may never see may never know may never want. I’m sick of seeing the fears of others expressed with air and vocal vibrations escaping their inverse-*******, though I fear I may succumb before too long, join their ranks, if I learn too well to fear all that which I’m around so that I'm too occupied with my surroundings, so occupied that I can’t pay attention to what I’m expelling from behind my teeth and eyes.

My wide eyes behind these thin stone ovals made of nothing but rims and scratches from times when I temporarily forgot how to walk well enough and because I’ve long-since lost my give-a-**** in the cushions of the couch I call carelessness.

Standing, soaked, out in a storm, gusts of wind whipping my hair around wildly
Unruly strands sway with the song of chaos, pulling at my scalp, snapping, lashing at my face
My existence is all reality as this whirlwind tempest frantically thrashes about my flesh
In the complex puzzles and foolish games, a simple madness lives, and therein lies my freedom

My tongue and lips sometimes flap boisterously from their spot on my face
And the noises risen up from my throat, and passed through my mouth are meaningless blubberings
Involuntarily, I grin, tasting the nonsense's unique sweetness, and I swallow
My laughter rings out, a vociferous and untameable sound; humor, the voice of a crazy woman

And I spin! Oh, I spin and spin and spin, savagely, in ellipses, ovals, and circle shapes
I've no shame, and this dance is all mine, so I maniacally fling my arms through the air
And as my body makes its revolutions, a fierce smile curves the shape of my lips, wrinkles the corners of my eyes
Inside my mind, wandering - wondering if there's any real difference between elated insanity and that which I crave...

Some people might use words such as eccentric, strange, whimsical, and peculiar for what they cannot understand
So very often I hear these such words being used from those who speak of me
But it is them whom I perceive as being rather off, so habitual and boring, living like routine enslaved, joyless zombies
So unfathomable to me, why most everyone seems to desire nothing beyond a passionless, hollow schedule to, every day, just repeat

Me... I'll race barefoot down a gravel path, through lightning, thunder, and rain, only to feel my hair being twisted and tangled up in the wind
I'll jabber absurdities, laugh like a loon, all while I spin contentedly around and around, until, stupidly dizzy, I crash and fall
Madness pays little mind, stands without worries or concerns, because it believes - it knows, most nothing matters
This is my freedom, freedom that cannot be shared, for what it is, is something that's only freeing for me...

               ~A. D. Smithson   MARCH 2013

Look into two ovals of blue,
Ice caps, the winter's sea, rough, vigerous, cold.
Swimming in snow, through snowflakes, through veins of blue too.
Ice on the surface but water underneath.
Drowning.
Skin white as the snow, struggling.
Waves of warmth leaving her body.
Head towards the sky, towards the air to fill my lungs.
Drenched, heavy blue jeans, weighing me down.
Pull me to peace.
Where two ovals of blue close, and sleep.
Where warmth may be found.
Dreaming of a different set of ovals.
Brown and deep that search for something more.
A hand to reach into my ovals of blue.
That finds me.
That pulls me out softly.
Gentle.
From my battle within this cold.
This desolate despair that makes no good friend.
The ice will melt.
The cold must end.
Blue eyes made of ice.
Awaken again.

Just like any other town, except the middle school is in an old strip mall, selling free education. The bank advertises a “Kalachi Festival” and nothing else, not low interest loans or free checking. The streets are lonely, but then again, it’s Sunday morning and most are at church. Where I’m headed, riding passenger, just for you. I hate riding passenger, but I’ll let you wear the pants today, I’ll stick to my fifties inspired floral skirt and clichéd pink teddy bear sweater. We arrive. Nine-thirty on the dot. Right on time, you say “I told you we wouldn’t be late.” I roll my eyes and breathe deep as I open your car door. We walk across the gravel lot to a low lying building. Church. No loud music or free coffee to hide behind. No large crowds or jumbo screens. Just people. We go into a classroom. Read from the bible. Meet people whose names I promptly forget. But that’s okay, they forget me too.
We finish on the gospel of John. And take a bathroom break, I take a while, not willing to endure the awkwardness that is sure to occur if I exit before you do. I stare at my reflection and regret my eyeliner. I’m glad I wore flats, not heels, and feel a bit overdressed to be honest. I exit, after using hand sanitizer as hand soap, realizing, then proceeding to wash my hands again. You’re talking to an elderly woman, she’s small, fragile. I hug her awkwardly, I’m terrible at meeting people. Another deep breath. Your father comes into view. What if he hates me? What if you realize you’ve made mistake? What if I accidentally say ****? ****. ****. ****. Deep breath out. Shake hands, smile and greet awkwardly, yet again. Meet Pearl and Ruby. The Two Jewels of the church. Meet Leonard. Joke with leonard, Think of my grandfather and how I should call him. Mentally punch myself in the arm. Greet your mom, get told I’m pretty, laugh, not knowing what to do.
I sit next to Alanna and the *** Smoking boyfriend, Scott. Sing. Pray. You do announcements. Everyone takes communion, Myself included. You pray, with such conviction and belief I’m confused. I put on the pious face for the congregation. Look innocent. Observe. Sing again. No instruments, only robust voices, all together. Your hand is in mine for the sermon. Finding it hard to concentrate, I notice the approximate age and décor of the church. Probably mid-late seventies. The Mauve carpet reminds me of my mother. She loved mauve in the 90’s, when it was popular. Exposed beams make it feel more like a chapel. They remind me of my church at home. There’s a choir section, making me realize it could have been another church at some point, you don’t have choirs. The sermon’s finished. Your hand has left red marks on mine, small ovals that you fuss over. We make our way out of the church. The last to leave. Following your parents home.
You lived in the country. In a wooden house that reminds me of my first house in Perry. Covered in dark wood. Your kitchen reminds me of my mother, covered in sunflowers, her favorite. You give me a quick tour.  The art that covers the walls of your home is yours and your siblings. I’m amazed. We clomp down the stairs; “they’re extra steep” you warn. Your mother’s preparing lunch. I contemplate offering to help, but don’t want to look like an *** if she says yes and I mess something up.
We retire to the living room with your father. He asks about my family. My parents, an Engineer and a Marketing Director. He asks about their expectations for me. Asks me if I live in the country, No, I reply, I live on the golf course. His eyebrows raise further. ****. I should have left that out. He thinks I’m wealthy. I’m not, neither are my parents. Mercifully we get called in for lunch. Roast, salad, corn, cantaloupe, potatoes, I love home cooking. You peer pressure me into cheesecake. Your father suggests you take me to the pond. You think twice. Taking in my shoes and skirt. We go anyways. Kiss as soon as we’re out of sight. I wish we could just lie down beneath a tree and sleep. We walk back to the house. Collect groceries and money, Even me. We go to the car. Drive away. You’re tired. So am I, we fight a little on the way back, mostly joking. We fall into bed and sleep away the morning. Which you say went well, I’m still unsure.

The clock was set back,
and now night rots
away the afternoon.
Gray light spills,
slouches, sloughs
into my hair,
my hands, across
all these strangers.

Ovals of alcohol
keep the rain away.
My life is moving
stave by stave.
I used to go to school,
have a social circle,
idle through hobbies,
new days, new days.
What the hell happened?

Pencil lapsed over paper, strokes struck blank.

Curves raced up and down the stairs, lines longed to curve.
Loops eloped to a wedding
Spirals sprung out,
Dashes dashed,
Crosses squares with circles
Triangles jumped over rectangles
Ovals wove throughout

Dot was left to point out
The empty blank around him

Round about she goes
spinning circles, oblongs, ovals, and eggs.
Sure as the bite the cold wind blows
The circles must be spun

Lying in bed
a picture of dreamy isolation and tranquility
but without a doubt within her head
the circles must be spun

Her breath is steady
But her mind racing with today, tomorrow, occasionally yesterday
Why can’t I just sleep already!
The circles must be spun

Her patience runs thin
An awakened mind does little for a slowed body
Nails digging into skin
The circles must be spun

Red lines focus the mind
Pulling it away from the insistent circles
But short lived is relief of this kind
The circles must be spun

Other remedies have their ways
Turning the circles into two points connected
But tonight there shall be no such daze
The circles must be spun

So round about she must turn
Allowing the circles to turn, grow, and consume
Slowly they become cause for concern
The circles must be spun

To her never ending surprise
the spinning has slowed and the world blurred
The faithless sun begins to rise
The circles have be spun

Something so little can hold my life
An orange cylinder, the size of my palm.
A bunch of mini ovals that can make me sleep in no time
A handful of them, going down my throbbing throat, have never made me so calm.

Oh, how I wished I could change my mind
But this sad life of mine is something I can not bare.
Oh, how I wish I could give myself some more time
But this woe is all I am in this air.

And here I lay in tight space filled with water
My arms numbed with red
Finally I’ll be depression’s martyr.

aristotle and plato were convinced that the circle was the heavenliest shape in all of creation. it was eternal. but, see, the ellipse is that much better. the oval is the imperfect circle, the imperfect shape that instead of having one heart has two, the sound of an open mouth as you gasp, the shape of fingerprint bruises.

the earth moves in an ellipse. all of the planets do. as we spin around the sun, you and i are planets. no wonder when i see you from afar, i can't breathe; we're just in space.

you are neptune. you are deep blue and stormy sea clouds that look like sweat and work, but you are mysterious and beautiful and so far away. when you are neptune, i am uranus, being pulled by the way you move.

sometimes i am saturn. i am swollen with the dust and dirt that make up my outsides. when i am saturn, you are jupiter: a friend who is bigger than i am.

we're space stations and metal, too cold to touch until we get hot from the movement of each other. we're satellites and moons and space-time fabric.

aristotle and plato were convinced that the circle was the heavenliest shape in all of creation. i think that they're so wrong. the shape of your hips, your words, your kindness, your taste, your mouth, your body, your creativity, your sweetness all end up tasting like eternity and heaven.

my heart beats in circles sometimes. but, when i look at you, my heart beats like you and i and ovals.

black satin sheets
warmed with our body heat
jazz music with deep beats
under a high ceiling

were fantasy and reality meet
Luna's glow peeks in for a greet
through the glass above
ten times two feet

the moon reflects
from ovals so exotic
that your glitter and shine
force time to be static

diligent and still, Luna and I
await your surrender
like addicts to their narcotics
so come! allow me to inject you
with pleasures of the ******!

GLUTTONY


Go ahead and gorge yourself upon gallons of gaudy garments,
Gaining more weight got by galling garish goods I guess won’t
Ground

Let loose to the luscious luxuries of lackluster lemon and
Lots of lulling bedtime letters that will surely let at bay the
Ladies

Unravel your unctuous mind and unwrap the unstoppable urge
That undeniably lives under unruly layers of
Unproductive

Together bring the talk of taking another tackle to your taciturn tally,
Taller the score and take down the tormenting tickling
Tack

Over and over in obscure ovals until objective becomes apparent
Only leaving orbs of former obliqueness’ obliging to
Object

Never again nourish the need to negate the null to nonsense,
Leave behind the knots of then and live the neat of
Now

Yesterday was yellow in yielding to yearning and
Today is your yet to the question of no or
Yes











GREED



Gradualy every great thing grounded in your gaudy life will grain,
Falling from grander to
Greed

Run away you realize will render you ridiculously reeled
Be the regal recall of natures
Ranting

Even then elude the everlasting elasticity of your sins
Only to elect your own faults and
edict

Evermore entrapped in the entity of your greed which eels
Its way through your
Etiquettes

****** to depths of hell’s dungeons you will go down
If you never fix your
Deeds.







WRATH



Wound so tightly your will won’t save you when the
Day weans of light to
Wear

Repent all you require if you really must, no reprise
Will be your
Reward

Again and again you’ve all but alleged all of your agitations
And now do you
Abject

Too many you take to the top and through to the terrible
Tale of
Tartaras

How do you have your hallowed hot-headed hate now
Had by all you
hocked







SLOTH



Silently slithering fangs strike and pierce into your supple skin
The serpent of Hades himself forcing you to succumb to
your sloth

Legs let leave your longing to linger standing
The lull of the luscious leisure of laziness
Calling you

Over and over you omit the need to oblige
Object the obscurities and overcompensate the
obligation

Though it takes away tell of your toes, stunning your talk
Teathering you to a tree and leaving you to the
terrors

However hollow the halo, the hearth of hasty hearts, may be,
you cannot halt it before is has you in its hold
sleep








LUST


Linger in line a little longer until your litenous lust
lessens to lethargic
larceny

Undone and unset you undermind your unity
and uncite all uncertainty, understand to this
ulcer

Slung across a slat singing sultry in your stipple,
you slew to sound off your
sanity

Taught thoughtless logic tenderly apply topical treatment
to tape together the tatters, tonight a temporary
Tylenol








ENVY



Eject and exact illusions of elected goals eluding your reason
So eject them for
Ever

Never return, never negate the negligence of this nuisance,
Need it
Not

Vanquish your venomous vicarious visions so vivid
I assure you not very
Vivid

Yearn no more and yearn by years how yellow
Can yell the
Yetti








PRIDE



Perniciously palpable pigs of pride that so prate way their progress,
Putting all but prosperity in their own
Propensity

Ridiculously cold rendering the most righteous of realist,
Even relenting to the racketeering of a
Rider

I too see an iota of insolence in intemperate impostors
Of what internal instances tell us is
Intimidating

Down the street dally a day and discover how detrimental
Such a disease dilutes the delineation of our past
Delegation

Even if one ever eludes the elasticizes of this eccentric extortionist
Eventually another will emit it upon to you again
entirely

Cosmic serpent
Flies in circles
Orbits earths
Visits vessels
Stings and wrestles

Prowls the plain
The desert arrangements
Faces fire no fear
Takes one look at the spider

Sees through the fire
Undresses the only envy
The necessity plenty
Of spiraling ascent

To meaning manifest
A plunge into the nest of the fortune cookie prophecies

Fate pulled from a hat
In the terraforming visions of the seven breasted harpy speech devours itself
The visioneer’s ouroboros precludes ovals of assimilation clinging tight to the exoteric
The vessel rejects the half digested
An ammonia laden upheaval

Dispelling folderol with blinding reverence
Inviting tragedy with nostalgic foresight
Wet nightmares
Logic abandons the visioneer ****** into the opposite of static

I saw a sticker on a car coming home from work this afternoon.
One of those "international ovals" that used to indicate a foreign country
like France, Switzerland or, if you believe the TV commercials,
Detroit.

Now they stand for everything from the local swim team
to the driver's favorite species of dog
although pinning it on the driver might be unfair
probably better to say the owner.

The sticker I saw today, and it was a sticker not a magnet,
it was stuck on the window,
was OLF and it made me miss mom more than yesterday,
Mother's Day, did.

OLF stands for Our Lady of Fatima, the local Catholic Church
and it was adorning an SUV of appropriate size and sticker price for these parts.
Mom always called Fatima, Saint Olaf's because everyone around here calls it OLF
so it wasn't her fault.

Every time I, or my wife, politely corrected her she'd reply,
"I know" and then promptly call it Olaf's ten minutes later.
So today waiting for the green light on the way home
a little sadness as St. Olaf's SUV reminded me of mom.

and
I laughed.

I have been bright, hovering for weeks with the edges of ovals I so narrowly believed to be bicycle wheels,
discovering good friends in places right under the windowsill, freshening up the roses
in the pots I'd forgotten about on the back porch.

and there's you, a dream perhaps,
a sliver of pecan pie left over from the holidays but increasingly fresh
I'd like to twinge the tremors in your body that make you hum
and satiate pulsing bodies in flat, parallel lines of desire and decisiveness
I'd like to be the twisting ivy on the brimming edges of tentative youth,
to scale your walls and snuggle in the safety of wonderment and lack of knowing,
any better.

I'd like to make the bluebirds sing with throats of slim-cut rubies,
to have contentment and a battle born, hand held, period of time in which
I can enjoy a piece of dessert, well deserved

warm weathers with a warmer heart:
i stretched out my arms
and embraced her with all i am.
this girl threw an ocean of words,
of images, of emotions, and even of silence at me
over a mango shake, kimchi fishcake,
and a pair of hot matcha lattes.
she challenged me to a doodle dare
when i told her i don't draw humanity,
as much as i wanted to draw her right there on the spot.
let's draw those people on that side of the cafe
ah, a people-watching activity!
just our kind of hobby that immerses us within society
while being in our own little world!
i noticed she draws people first
then the background according to the proportions of the persons;
yes, a people-watcher observing another people-watcher
unlike me who starts off with the walls and furniture of the space.
she drew the ovals for body proportions;
her pencil marks done gently, focused and magnified,
much like how she holds herself up.
thus we were satisfied with unfinished sketches
and incomplete acapella song covers;
and it definitely was a finished day–
complete with her presence,
photographs taken with cameras and our memory's eyes,
inside jokes about boys and talks about life outside.
the sun is getting lower
as the hour hand is getting higher.

Time continues but we paused.
So I'm up for another round with you, Lou.

She lay in the bath, half asleep or half awake she wasn't sure, but the warm water floated gently around her infinitely. And just like the memories in her mind the water lapped aimlessly at nonexistent edges, spilling over, as if wandering off the edge of the world.  
She moved her hand carelessly to tuck an escaped strand of hair behind one ear as the water hugged the creases and crevasses of her body, all contained in a white bowl of serenity with the only disruption in her mind. She starred absentmindedly into the reflection in the water, a distorted and watery version of her blue eyes and curly hair, although somewhere inside her she knew she was beginning to feel more like her reflection every day. Her tear stained eyes stared back at her, the makeup smudges making her look skillfully tired and worn as though an artist himself had hand crafted her very face and in the process aged her 5 years. Inside she lulled away, wanting to melt into the water and never care about anything more than was necessary. The soft, happy, carefree side temporarily locked away, with a combination that even she did not yet know. Instead an emotional whirlwind of feelings, angry and powerful tunneled out, amplified by so much as a word or a thought. It was these moments that almost took her by surprise, as if it was someone else pushing these people out, in an attempt to avoid explaining. This was accompanied by feeling as though the world had given her everything to live for and everything to lose in one breath. Her ragged breathing had eventually softened to an emotional sigh of trembling lips as she reimbursed herself with more hot water. Feeling it burn on her leg she watched pink ovals appear,  stinging with regrets and pain, a constant wishing to go back and re do and apologies and pause and rewind and forward.
With a click of her heel she snapped the plug away, maybe in some attempt to also drain herself of her tribulations that had almost enveloped her entire bath. Watching the water disappear quickly, she was entranced at the waters escape, loving how eager it was to run away from her. And with this she felt relief, as though she could finally breathe.

i am your woman in
ruby red silk sari with
gold thread-
i bear the mark of a
married woman high
on my forehead

for you i cook aromatic
spiced lamb-tender as
the light over morning
calcutta
yellow rice soft as a
painter's yellow ochre
on drying pallate

for hours i have watched
over slow rising flat bread
each  ****** of the heel
of my hand forming warm
dough into flat ovals

i bathe in the essence of
warm sandalwood and
the fruit smoke of incense

tonight i give to you the
secrets of womanflesh and
take you to me david
under white gauzy canopy
as the garden peacock
prims it's silken feathers
under the shadow of the
sundial-

tonight i am your temple
and the gods smile softly
with pleasure.            
                       ana christy

(1)ones laughing like a dog with 2 22's
who're like 3: a whorish slightly giggling mess
3 prods the carpet by footed semblance of leather
assembling her flesh in the left corner of a lazy
rectangle cinema cube. 1nes still cackling throat
******* cords vibrating stupidly on every face              with the 2 maybe 23's

mouthhanding and eyefucking with his fat grunt syllabary. 3's uncomfortable
atthe sycophantic panting of her 23's atthis masculine discharge
wetting the silence a pulsing ***** of tongue barking *****           .     as an usher ushers fleetly our
moist intellects to the quiet little. the quiet little notch. of waiting excited
screaming visuals a screen crucified blathering.

the 1's ungiddy prance detonates by the skinnyjeaned legs pumping fetid motion. in company of long femininity. and the ovals of 3
grate swift bile at they're lump. and they swallow inthedarkness
his moronic spit. and puke  .    .                                        .

specifically:very:yes the gray grows
speaking slowly rainy bones
disheveled drooping vertebrae
c
ambered lovely death .a wrist bangled stupid colour's

      finely pounded grains galloping fleet ovals
the apt pupil dodders and the sky is a *****
why today?rain

If I left the earth today, what would they say?

A few would cry.
Dry your eyes
Live on and dream for me
Carry my soul in your hearts
Make sure, that I never fade away.

Take me to a place
Where angels place seeds into the cores of pears;
Gently intertwining the juicy fibers
Into nearly perfect ovals.

Go to sleep
Don’t wake up; Don’t blink!
Rest your eyes and sleep

Sleep with me
I promise, I will always rest on your shoulder

Droplets of sweat flattened on our foreheads under the weight of a mid-August sun—flattened into ovals of sticky sodium, catching specks of stray dirt swept into the air from the passing semi’s and transport trucks, whipping the wind into torrents of chalky highway dust.

Pressed high against the skies curved plain, we used our thumbs to browse the passing cars like pages of an anthology enclosed by a narrow spine of asphalt.

But when one pulled onto the shoulder and we approached the passenger side window, we too were ****** with the expectation and appeal of a library—mutually eager in the labour of conversation for the currency of experience.

For a moment, as the prairie receded in the side mirrors, our car became the baseline of a frantic cardiogram, crowded by the landscape of rising granite walls and low-hanging canyons, and the space between our separate lives closed like parallel lines drawn by gravity to a magnetic core.

We pushed our destination west, as far as it would go, safe on the heels of expectation. In motion the passing towns crackled like neurotransmitters firing signals over axons of black asphalt. But each time the car slowed to release us, one more they faded into a rancid stasis, that, once more, we aimed only to depart.

In moments such as these
My skin aches with recollection
Of how it was when passions ran high
And silence was filled with devious, knowing eyes

In moments such as these
My mind strains to find a masterpiece
Anything that will gather your attention
From the mundane distractions its lost within

In moments such as these
My questions begin in endless ovals
Pushing adrenaline and anxiety as I wonder,
"Is this really what I'm resigning my youth to?"

In moment such as these
I lie in silence searching for a revival
But now the quiet crushes me
And any eye contact is dull, disappointed, and droopy

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first period, first kiss, first full shave
from armpit to ankle.

The teacher pulls me aside--all smiles
and maternal excitement.
She tells me that my test scores put me
in the 98th percentile.

I **** my head, recalling the soft-lead, the
guarded pencil sharpener at the front of the room,
and the bullseye ovals that tested my mind,
my palm sweat, my straining eyes.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first violent fight with my mother, first homosexual
fantasy, first dressing room meltdown.

The pediatrician pulls me aside--half austerity, half pity.
He tells me that I need three HPV shots, and by the way,
my weight puts me
in the 98th percentile.

My eyes sink back into my face, and the flood doesn’t come
until I am home, curled into my mother’s breast,
wondering how to divide my head into
Focused Student and Focused Starver.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
times tables and long division and calories
in an apple and calories burned in a playground brawl.

I learn to count my success in numbers and my failures
in grams, pounds, inches, threats
of fat camp, images of thick yellow fat
sandwiched between my organs.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
98th percentile and chewing and spitting and growing
and pinching the body that I cannot call my own--
and numbing the brain that matches the magnitude of my fullness.

I am a split-girl, a shame reservoir spilling
over and out and coating my paper with fractions and plans
of calculated disappearance.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
and the teacher’s clock doesn’t stop, and the and the doctor’s scale doesn’t pause
to make room for my magnitude.