Poetry of Issue #8        Page 47

The Color of Skinny

Before Dad went to work,
he made me scrambled eggs
and poured hot cocoa into my pink plastic cup.

After Dad kissed me goodbye, I watched cartoons
and waited for the smell of Mommy’s first cigarette.
She gave me a scoop of low-fat cottage cheese.

I kept the breakfast secret until my sister woke up early,
caught me heading to the freezer with a tablespoon to dig
into a forgotten ice cream cake.

Chubby tits at five, plaid dresses hardly covered me.
Mom wanted to feed me diet pills, Dad didn’t approve.
He switched from eggs to Metrecal when he didn’t get promoted.

Mom told Dad to wear solid colored ties as a fat disguise.
I wasn’t my svelte mother who once modeled lingerie
for men on a two-martini lunch.

Dad provided shelter and mom’s cigarettes. Mom finally banished
Santa Claus jolly Dad to a memory. My sister is the color of skinny.
No black and white cookies for us, in need of little food
we scrape by feeling our own bony ribs.