Can't get the last stanza of a poem I wrote this week out of my head. A poem called "To Handle a Hen: Advice from my Stepbrothers."

A hard poem indeed. And the last stanza, this...

Once baked, the flesh will flatten,
stretch, evaporate into brittle crispness.
This is best: fat's no good for your heart.

My own poem speaks to me. Reminds me what it takes to sin against others. Yes, to sin against others it helps to turn them into ghosts, waifs, thin things, paper dolls, flimsy realities.

But... if they begin to take shape, inflate, fatten, turn in three dimensions before my eyes... rise up, dance, flex fullness, pop, bubble, burgeon... well now, that changes things.

Fatten my friends, Lord, my family, the invisible oppressed of the world. Fatten them 'til I can hardly reach 'round one side to the other. Fatten them. In my mind and heart.

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Blogger Joelle said...

Mmmm, fatten my students, God. Help me see them not as their IQ or behavior but as living, loving beings. Grace me with your vision, to see them in more than 3-D. Plump, tender, your blood coursing through their veins.

Blogger SuzyQ said...

I love this poem!
The imagery you use is wonderful.


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