Wed, 04/04/2018 - 21:01 -- Saroda

I measured each spoonful of Mexican cheese

and sprinkled it, like a surgeon, over a bubbling omelette

Next was the avocado, sliced in smooth crescents

of green because that's the good kind of fat,

my sister said, not the bad kind

I can still see my mother's lips twisting to form the

"f" in "fat."

You're not fat, she said, Why do you think you're fat?

I don't want to fight her,

I just want to fit into my prom dress

Satin red with a knotted sash, it will cling to me

like a hand dipped in wax

And like wax, the curve above my hips must be melted away.

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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