we pull clay from our pockets

and sculpt tiny trolls.

Each one holds

the Parmesan or the red pepper,

a fork like a pike, a spoon

as a tiny bed.

When the pizza comes,

it’s perfect.

Pizza is made of magic.

Perfect cheese, perfect sauce,

and perfect crust, perfect smell,

perfect.

I down my first piece before

anyone else’s second bite.

I feel myself eyeing the slices,

counting them,

worried that I won’t get enough.

I need to make sure I do, so I eat fast.

Another. And more like this, until

I find that I have eaten half the pie.

Slow

down, my mother says sharply.

She shakes her head at me.

She’s seen this too many times.

I want to,

but I don’t.

Once, my aunt Cookie told me

I should wait for my mind

to catch up with my stomach.

The moon is out now.

The waves crash and disappear

in the distance.

We play around,

running from car to car,

ducking in and out,

some tag or battle game.

We decide to launch

a race for the last fifty steps

back to the gallery.

Pick blows past me

and through groups of people

walking around the town.

Then, out of nowhere,

I hear the sudden voice

of some young man,

a group just passing by,

as my heavy legs reach Pick’s dust cloud

swirling in the moonlight

You’ll get ’em next time, Fatboy,

and then laughter in the dark

from somewhere in the space

I just ran past.

Pick is in the nursery now,

already putting his pizza troll

on the shelf.

When You Are Fat …

there are

long stretches

when you don’t

think about

the way your body presses

against your clothes,

when you don’t feel tired

when you run in the sun

like everyone else.

There are times

when you eat dinner

and nobody

looks at you funny,

like you might eat

way more than your share.

There are times

that you can just be

who you are.

There are also times

when your body betrays you.

There are times

when you feel

like you can’t stop eating,

because eating

is the only way

you know

how to

feel

right

again.

Something Finally Happened

That night, we sleep

on our old camping mats

in the planting room,

our sleeping bags

zipped over our heads.

Outside, the cold marine layer

settles over the town,

the buildings submerged

in wet summer fog.

I half dream all night

about voices in the dark

like a choir singing out

a million mean names

through my life,

piling on top of me

like old blankets.

When my eyes finally open,

I feel the weight still on me.

My hands move to my belly.

Too soft, I think.

Too much.

I remember a doctor’s visit in fifth grade.

The doctor talked about salad,

told me to try Italian dressing.

It makes the green stuff good.