white sheer tights expanded over my legs,

a crown, and even a real sword.

In the picture of that day,

my face is noble,

on top of too many chins,

my belly spilling over my gold belt.

This was the first time I noticed you were chubby.

How did that happen? she asks.

Me too. I noticed it then.

But not for the first time.

Stuck in the City

Alone,

my mom

off to deal with lawyers, clients, customers,

maybe even my father, I think,

but she doesn’t say it.

It’s a whole list I don’t understand.

I have to leave early

and come home late every day this week, she says.

I live out Level 2 the best I can,

more carbohydrates than Level 1,

even a little sugar, but only from fruit.

I pour twenty-four almonds in a bowl,

grab a coffee cup of blueberries,

and roll a piece of salami tightly

with a slice of Swiss cheese.

I make it fancy on a plate,

pour a glass of diet soda.

I pass the tall mirror

in the hallway

to make sure the weight

didn’t somehow come back.

I look at myself,

first straight on,

then I turn to my side,

suck it in,

let out my breath

because the weight is still gone.

I sit on the couch

and turn on the TV.

I eat almonds

and watch Magnum P.I.

on Netflix, like I do with my father.

We love to watch old shows together.

The actor’s Hawaiian shirts

unbuttoned too far,

like my father’s shirts.

Sometimes when we were back in New York,

my father sent me

to the market down the street

to get cupcakes and Hershey’s bars,

and then we would

sit and eat them all,

him explaining

the plot of Lost,

or watching reruns of

Happy Days

or Hill Street Blues.

The couch feels good.

I’ve been away from couches

and TVs, computers, and Magnum,

and Voltron, and everything else.

When each new show starts,

I taste cupcakes and potato chips,

smell oatmeal cookies,

feel chocolate melting on my tongue.

I breathe,

eat a blueberry instead.

Sardines

During these long days,

I sit sometimes

in the empty space

and wait for him,

the sound of his keys in the door

or the smell

of the sardines

he eats every day.

I walk to the kitchen

open the pantry door,

find cans of deviled ham

and uncut salami.

But on the third shelf,

just below the beanless

chili, the beef jerky,

I find

the tiny

star-shined tin

of sardines.

His sardines.

The ones he told

me were only for grown-ups.

I put it on the counter,

unhinge the lid

with the square key,

and slowly peel the metal back.

I stand in the kitchen.

I hear doors open and close.

I hear buses slip

and buzz along wires.

The kitchen

fills with a faraway sea.

I eat all the sardines

one by one

and lick

the tin