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TOO FAT TO HANG
by Tim Pilgrim The relationship must die. His thighs have become pillows wallowing in brie, hips, strudeled reminders of Vesuvius choked not with dust, but cream. No way to fake it, breathe deep before nightfall, ease yourself from underneath a beefy day, slip off, freshen up, later creep back lithely, ready to be on top, talk communication, quell unease clinging like chunks of tallow to your soul. Support groups gone, friendships growing mold, vow now to lick back with hunger, face this foe head on, swan dive into hollandaise, swallow hard, then hold. It's the end — no good to pretend nooses are chocolate, gallows have dessert bars, not stairs. |
RAIN OVER OIL FRONT by Eleanor Leonne Bennett |
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THE LEAVING
by Tim Pilgrim Too fat to hang at White House Ruins, doing crank, seduced by metaphor, pondering divorce number two, God walks out of math proficiency exam six ounces early —all the while reciting night sky. This being America, there were patriots present. |
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