In bed he places his arms around my waist like a corset,
pulling the knobs of my spine like the strings. Last June
we went out for dinner in Tucson and when I ordered
the last slice of chocolate creme torte, he informed me
that the only reason we’d make love that night
was so I could lose the extra calories I’d gained from dessert.
As a child, my mother read me tales of the great
Greek goddesses, Aphrodite, Euthenia, Peitho,
and how Zeus couldn’t have climbed Mount Olympus
without Hera’s help. So today, just minutes after he
pinches the extra fat between his fingers like a tailor
measuring for the perfect dress, I remove every single
nectarine from the fridge, along with a can of whipped cream,
and decorate his car in the flavors of my favorite after-supper
snack, spraying At least I’ve got a fat heart; yours is so skinny
even a toothpick would need to work out five times a week
to get even close to its weight across the front hood.
Then, instead of keying my initials into the car door,
I etch the calorie count for tonight’s dinner into the steering wheel.