by Cora Lopez| Poetry | Summer 2021
i am thinking about what it would be
if my fat melted like polar ice caps.
as grubby money men (in their prime!)
bungle the jungles to build new gyms,
i’d melt
away
away
away
to grease some archetypal, cosmic pan
with all of my arm fat, be folded into cookie dough
as profiteers and warmongers fiddle idly with fountain pens, ink gushing
the surging, the skin stippled and sore
i am becoming a drain
in the name of the father, the son, and the holy Adam Smith (praise be unto him!)
no more dues or processed foods—
no more flab or love handles to grab—
a slurry of squelches sound;
as the dieticians dance in this liposuction deluge
for the day has come for my BMI to see green, green, green!
I wake with surgery scars from an invisible hand
and sigh contentedly, emaciated at last!
Wilder Voice Magazine 