from chex

I'm Too Big
by Franchesca Casauay on Friday, January 21, 2011 at 4:13pm


and I'd love to shrink it all,
diet my personality,
sick of blubbering through my life
heart-broken, but ox-strong,
clench-toothed, sure-footed, swollen
solid like the ugly cactus plant
storing up lonely sips
of water.
If I could just have those stick legs,
loose and dangling in baggy dress slacks,
thighs too skinny to keep anyone warm,
or the cold puckered dot of a nipple,
too tight to nurture. Give me a belly
so small that it doesn't need much, so queasy,
it never loves so desperately this feeling,
of full.
I'm too big,
and I envy the fragile woman
with her long thin hands,
too tired just writing a thank you note
much less touching someone—
holding anything. Those small feet
stepping lightly, pitter-patting
her delicacy, scooting around the mess.
Or the oohs and aahs of her tiny gestures,
the simple tilt of her crème white neck,
the sunken clavicle, and the lilting spine
lacing up a smooth-skinned back
that can't hold much weight,
so none is ever put.
Her whispered sleep, sacred.
Her tiny words, momentous.
Her close-lipped smile, rare.
I wish I could surger myself
narrow my eyes, too wide-set, close up
my sinuses so I don't have these smells
to remember, or miss. Here, take a rib—
I'd rather not expand like this
every time I breathe. And oh,
for a smaller head.
I'd shrink it myself if I could,
place my hands on my temples
the way Rhett did Scarlett,
tussling her frizzy hair,
and squeeze, veins popping,
until I squashed out all my big ideas
about love.
I'm tired of being too much,
the whole Sunday paper
when you just want the classifieds,
the waste of gaudy Christmas decorations,
meat scraps thrown to the dogs.
And though I don't really believe that less
is more, or that not enough is pleasure,
I've yet to find the ones who love
a big mouth like mine, the laughing teeth,
and wine-filled cheeks, the throaty echo
of deep vowel sounds,
my big words.
And what's worse, I think I'm growing.

--Marguerite Scott