God, I’m bad. God forgive me.
Oh my God I am heartily sorry
for having offended thee–
Strike me down, make me
a splinter on the lowest rung
on the ladder to your glory.
After the machine pressed me
and pulled me and took pictures,
after my loaner gown was tossed
in a teal and pink peal of relief
in the hamper — after I’d tissued away
the ultrasound goo and put my bra
back on, I went for a milkshake and fries
in spite of all the warnings
and all the shame.
In spite of 44 years
of knowing better. I left my house
and did something scary —
and followed it with something shameful.
Maybe “food-as-reward”
is an artifact that should be lost in my
reshuffling self. Maybe
the urge to drive through the drive thru
was too suddenly upon me, my little
Mazda steered toward decadence. Maybe
my opportunities for decadence and danger
are limited these days. I’ll stretch
a bottle of wine over two or three nights.
I don’t smoke or risk my body with strangers
the way I used to. So, when I’ve done
something brave, I might
shake off the terror of being a fat woman
asking to taste a fat food,
giving in to that thing that might
kill me sure as cigarettes, cave diving,
mountain climbing, car driving,
having feelings that run me
out of my body and send me
to see the wet, white
glob of skin that I am — and hate it
as I was taught to do. And hate it
for wanting a milkshake.
