“My bones are not softer than average, and their pain when broken is sharp, hard. But years of injuries have taught me that bodies are soft—softer when wounded—all the way down to the bone.”
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At the end of poetry, we created a city map with layers all merged: / streets, the water flowing over them through sewers to Sound, topographic / cut corners, radio waves to cellular towers to cables beneath the earth, / a string of words.
Paths form memory past memory, / time immemorial yet here material: a living tapestry draped / to the mantle from the sky. And through this organ, breathing: // a cut, a slice, a wound. Severing the spawning streams, the falcon’s / fields and beaver ponds—even the cliffs—a highway drives / into the woods.
That moment always stands out to me as when I first realized that fighting my fatness was the thing keeping me from power, not being fat. Being “obese” wasn’t causing my health issues or preventing me from doing what I loved: it was doctors refusing to listen to me and extreme dieting that was hurting my body.