I was smaller then—when
stuffed Portobello swelled with people,
yellow, below blooming gutters. Pineapple,
plaid button-down, round rims. I was smaller,
swallowed in Xs, stretching knits over knees,
breezing cotton layers coping, covering, cardigan-tied,
hiding evidence of gut and spine, loathsome
human cush. I was smaller then—and shrinking still,
running marathons in halves, calves scorching
as soles dropped to upward-sloping sidewalks. Just high
enough on sweat to forget the hollow gnaw, yawning
acid pit, empty from a steady diet of restriction and gorging
on religion. Less of me, more of the Ozian magician
asking me to pay him in piety, cloak my backbone
in niceties. Fasting, passing in straight sizes, masked,
undercover Willendorf, venus of cramped closets, fitting
for a secret hiding place since I was smaller then—
before I learned how to take up space.