The Maynard
Spring 2018

Across This Body

my  mom
was      so
nar    row,
nar    row,
but  when
I was nine I was already large enough
to wear the skirts and vests she wore
when she was twenty three years old.
she            ate
brown     rice
and  steamed
green  beans,
just           not
at           night.
ne             ver
af               ter
sun      down.
It took me a little over ten years to convince her to give me her
vintage Tahari dress, a sweet sixteen black-mesh-and-teal number
with a waist smaller than the circumference of one of my thighs—
even standing up as straight as I could and sucking everything in.
my mom,      ev      en
after     three        kids,
man  aged to       keep
her fig ure            safe.
some ups and downs
but not    too       long;
al ways on             top,
al ways     count    ing.
I gave up around age 30, and honestly I mostly didn’t care except
we’d fight about everything, when we were really fighting about this. A
therapist said to set some boundaries so I did: mom, this topic is off limits
Now we fight about my writing instead. It’s too dense, she says, or you talk too
much! Too many words! Each letter works too hard. Each word weighs too much.
Every turn of phrase too slow to enjoy life or find love or ever be worth the ink with
which it is pressed. She is only being honest; she only loves me more than I love myself.