Author: Lisa Marie

Lover

The soft lassitude

of a day parked by the fire,

like a car primed for a

make out session between

secret sex singers.

A leg soft and gently

dimpled,

an arm resting on the

pillow.

Outside,

a sea of hats I wear

to greet the constraints

of time and truth.

Fingers graze my nipples,

a hand cups my belly.

I have harvested the

secrets planted in my

garden long ago,

and they sit in a vase

drinking heavily from

their water.

She is my mirror,

but softer and more

at home with placid

calm.

The glass fell away from us,

and now we interlace in

front of a fire cooler than us.

Happy Fat Girl

Last summer I lost 50 pounds. Then the weight loss stalled. Gradually I got more and more sick of all the calorie restrictions. Sometimes I want chip and dip followed by cake for dessert. So sue me.

Gradually I loosened my rules – and the weight began pouring back over me like caramel on a sundae (now I want a sundae).

At this point I am not sure what direction to take things. If I go back to strictness and self control I can go back to the weight I was and then lower. Wearing smaller clothes is nice. The way people treat you when you are thinner is great.

At the same time, I really enjoy food and I miss eating what I want when I want. My husband likes me this way and doesn’t want me to diet. I diet to please our small society, but I like food. My husband loves me at this weight. Who am I trying to please?

At this point I am really on the fence. I might start dieting strictly again – 1000 calories a day or less. Painting can provide a distraction again to keep my hands busy. I have been painting this whole time anyway, but I could alter my focus. Set daily goals. Just drink water.

But I really want coke and pizza right now, my husband wants me, and I am happy. Not sure what to do.

Flora

Verdant veracity of the

vertebrate lawn rumbling

in an amalgamation of tongues

about the dangers of sunglasses.

In the house I drink my sunscreen.

The fly watches from

his trap embittered.

I’ll move through death

like a wind in my veil.

He’ll stay still and desiccate.

The lawn has done the

back-breaking work of drawing

meaning from dirt.

I can’t see the arms through

all the wisps of greenery,

but something is being

grasped preciously,

the edge of the sidewalk,

and the personhood of the

greenery is undoubtable.