In the shower, I speak
to my bloated bosom
and reprimand its refusal
to fit into the bridal blouse.
Tinkly metal scales
had embellished
the netty design, but
they would not apologize
for detaching without a cue.
I analyzed how
uncostly stitching was at fault.
But my mother
shot a million arrows
in the fragility of my
pampered lard
with a lethal look
that was invented
to massacre my mood,
electrocute my ego
and guillotine my greed.
She called me "FAT"
in a tone that could penalize.
I unclothed a squelched skin
from anguish of that
atrocious bodice. A snakebit
garment from hell fire
that bruised my body
and burnt our
mother-daughter bond.
But the mirror reflects
flattery on my flesh.
What a delight to grope
this ample of adipose!
The belly-bulge is how homely
our cushions should be.
Heaving hips
and thundering thighs
are undisguised veracity
of full-flavoured indulgences.
It was the puffiness of
swollen cheeks
that had sweetened
my lover's eye. And now
his last wish of romance
is to carry this
oversized butterball into
hefty honeymoon horizons
of a bouncy beach.
He must be kidding.