Three Poems (#2) – Rachel Wiley

Glory in Two Parts

I.
What you think you mean when you say that I Glorify Obesity
Is that I am an undeserved celebration
a gluttonous mass of unrepent
a patron saint of unhealth
that I am a pageant of sloth and wheeze and uncontrol,
a gasping heart Madonna
You think you mean how can she possibly raise her fat face  to the sun in worship
rather than submitting to the gravity of shame
That I am a sickness rolled in caramel and body glitter
A fatted golden calf in a sugar glazed crown,
That my disgraceful existence blesses other massive bodies
entices them to drink from a chalice of my toxic blood
and melts dignity into hot spit on their tongues
I am Blasphemy.
When you say that I Glorify Obesity you think you mean, how dare she.

II.
What you actually mean when you say that I Glorify Obesity
is that indeed I am Glorious
because  who would not exalt something as miracle as a living body?
You mean to say that I carry this body every day like a sacrament
to revere the way I keep raising despite a world who does not want the truth of me
You mean to say that I am a cup runneth over
that my walk preaches a gospel of rubbing thighs
that my arm fat jiggles like a pair fleshy tambourines
that my ass sways like a well trained choir
that my fupa is an altar built around something holy 

			

			
							

Three Poems – Rachel Wiley

Promissory

We are far and away from the days we were homecoming queens of the convenience 
store parking lot, fuel pump island girls who smelled of candy and gasoline, 
who welcomed in the cars who’s bass shook the ground like furious dancing gods, 
and offered ourselves up to  them when we knew what our youth 
and cleavage and the well-timed lick of a blow pop could get us, 
but not yet what they would cost us 
as we never bothered to read the promissory notes we signed to be young 
and girl 
and without curfew. 
We assumed the terms to be ours. 

We could not know what we would leave behind in wandering naive from our hilltop
that we would come to know what it means to be debt-full 
and woman 
and still with no one is calling us home.

I thank the rumble Gods for you
in the age girls are taught that our worth lies under the earth of other girls’ feet
and in the hot breath of men
we managed a double knotted string from your tin can heart to mine
that has been the guide line that leads me back to all of our safe 
when I have dived too far into the dark.
Again and again.