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Fat Woman with Fishburger, Fries So long chopping carrots and counting grams, she’s almost forgotten that taste on her tongue of fryer and salt and sauce as she crosses herself and clutches the bun with both hands and sighs, my fault, my most grievous fault, bright yen beyond hunger dancing down her body’s hot rungs, a signal in neon like molten light taking its horrible form in a knot of want, want, all of what’s in this sack to its greasy bottom. Forget the pink bras of sixteen, fold the honeymoon back to the apple and its ideal; just think this desire away: Who was the girl with snail shell nipples, soaping her breasts with rose and lavender foam? Look under the swell of her raised arm: a spray of tiny moles. And below: a delicate belly dent, live oyster of sex open-hinged. Was she ever that creature, copper hair spread full across a grateful lover’s chest? Did she ever imagine the future of her body’s cravings, lust estranged, warped into this wondrous shape, sweet riddles of hunger and flesh exchanged, robust, resplendent, plentiful, replete? 14 ...

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