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11 April 2015 @ 09:53 pm
Fat // Kyle McCord  
I’m now capable of getting fat,
though I know very little about it.
The fat might have a captain
who has a beard and battle standard.
It might resent its station.
I’m not angry at how or why it marshals.
My first twenty five years
I couldn’t sit down at a table
and make more of myself
than there already was.
My friends would tell my other friends
who would tell more distant friends
how we went out for dinner
and I ate my mataar paneer
then what was left of their mataar paneer
then how I drove over the cement barrier
owners install to separate parking spaces
in what amounted to a small moon rover.
This was a story that even
the downtrodden working in the bar
in Iowa City where Jim
lost his mind the first time
could get behind.
It was good to be lovable
in the way animals eating trash
are lovable. To be
the skeleton feeding himself
in the film for the fiftieth time.
It’s still funny.
I love how orderly my memories
of this have become.
I love how forgiving
Lake Ouachita becomes
when you stop floundering
and let it carry you on your back
where the fat forms its flotilla.
It wants to help me, no doubt.
The fat is a millennialist,
a doomspeaker.
The fat is my father
when I’m sixteen
teaching me to change
the flat tire I’ll never have.
How to loosen the lug nuts,
to crank
the jack into position. He taught me how to tear
the road flares into sparks
to brighten in ominous light
the highway winding back
toward the lake.
My father watched my hands
as I slowly spun the jack
after getting it wrong five times.
I wasn’t sorry to have come
this far into the night
only that we had so little idea
how to go back.
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