How does anyone have the right to tell you

how to live just because of your weight?

Mostly, you remember the smack of

the change.

One minute you were like

everybody else, playing around, enjoying life,

and then,

with the flip of an unseen cosmic switch,

you’re the fat girl,

stumbling,

trying to regain your balance.

Acting as if you know what you’re doing, like

when

you used to play dress-up

and tried to walk

in high-heeled shoes.

THE GIFT

Every time I see a pudgy preschooler,

I want to hand her my list,

like the answer sheet for a test,

to spare her the pain of learning

the rules firsthand.

But instead,

I give each girl the gift

of more days,

weeks,

and months

of a normal life.

Whatever that is.

BELLIES DANCING

Viv’s mom caught her dad with

another woman and said Texas

wasn’t big enough for the three of them.

So now my best friend has to move

to Indiana.

In my backyard, we livestream

the Latin Music Festival

on an outdoor screen

as part of her going-away party.

Viv starts belly dancing

like she learned in a class at

the Dallas Public Library,

where her mom was a librarian.

I follow her lead and

our arms morph into snakes

as our hips figure-eight.

My dog, Gigi, a pug,

runs circles around us as

we sing at the top of our lungs

along with the bands and

dance with complete abandon,

like you do when you’re alone in your room

trying out some new moves

or making up some of your own.

Except it turns out

we’re not

alone.

THE NEW NEIGHBOR

Mid-twirl, I open my eyes to see

a girl’s head pop up over the fence,

then disappear and reappear.

This trampoline girl

saw me shake parts of me

I didn’t even know I had.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I stop dancing so fast

I about give myself whiplash.

I see her head again.

“IheardDíasDivertidos.”

She says it so quickly it’s like one word.

She disappears and reappears.

“Couldn’thelpmyself.”

In a flash,

she climbs over the fence

and lands in front of me.

“I’m Catalina Rodriguez.”

A POET AND A MUSICIAN

Catalina points to the concert on the screen.

“Wow! So you like Días Divertidos, too?

I have all their songs on my playlist.”

“Me too,” I say.

“Who else do you listen to?”

“Don’t get Ellie started.”

Viv rolls her eyes.

If eye-rolling were an Olympic sport,

she’d be a gold medalist.

“I’m a poet, so

I love music because

lyrics are sung poems,” I say.

“Rap and country are my faves.”

“I’m a guitarist,” Catalina says.

“I like all music but love Latin.”

She chooses her words carefully, like me.

But she’s not like me.

Catalina’s skinny

like a pancake.

I’m more like a three-tiered cake.