Friday, July 3, 2015

Burnt Toast




Could you be more in awe of the shape I am taking?

Shedding a fist full of blubber and feeling less inclined towards peanut butter was never my idea of what a woman's constitution would be.  It used to be straight straight straight; my hips, my knuckles, my eyelashes.  Now it's spilling out, soft and loose and curves and tremors and kinks within kinks.  Each day is a new eureka to poke and prod and sigh about.  Rarities to nurture and purities to forget.

Methuselah, at age 969, exasperated and blasé and calm to a fault, waits by the oven for toast.

It blackens with a crunch, and Methuselah, at age 969, crunched and blackened himself, takes a mouthful.

1 comment: