Really you are
the triumphant mountain
of my depression; the mound
of my father and his forefathers. Perhaps
the protuberance of Irish women too? Their hairy
beer belly, a knoll. Life! Vigor! The comfort of an
old Apache grandfather, resting their babes on a fat
pillow. A pillow of fat. Fatty pillows. The mixture
of corn syrup and cellulite and “hey-don’t-fries-
sound-great-right-now?” órale! I hate you
with so much love quaking that I need
the serotonin. The scar of my SSRI.
The birth of my children.
I want to lose you at
times and then
I am grateful
that I feel:
Hugged.
Dad
bod.
Pa.
