
FAT GIRL DREAMS OF JEAN SHOPPING
and the store is massive, a mess of denim
stretched and panting, hangers
of hip-dip and mid-rise, straight fits
swinging beside wide legs and waisted,
jeans bleeding out an indigo mile.
fat girl heaps bootcuts in her cart,
won’t cop eyes on sizes or the price tag
just loads until the cart flows over,
plastic clacking, a joust for which jean
will house her first. fat girl loves
her denim distressed, the weedy fringe
curtaining a window of skin, the warm
walls of her thighs wide and viewable,
and with her cart buckling, bundles
of jeans hilled high enough to worship
the tenderloin of the meat-wet sky,
fat girl decides to try some,
though she hates dressing rooms, too small
the wooden walls closing till her knees
knock, the lock rattles, the rug burps
a rank reminder of piss. Fuck this
fat girl decides and strips in the aisle,
hoists a pair up her snaring hips, hops
while strangers watch, and an employee
jolts in his blue vest, suggests
she try the clothes at home, but fat girl is home
in her body, her ass quicks in its fit,
droops in bloom like a sap-drunk fig
and it is sweet to watch her, so sweet some
decide to dress too, unclip
their belt buckles and slip to bare legs,
small hairs flexing up their knees, heat
bruised in their inner thighs, the aisle
brimming with women sick of hiding,
fighting a whispered wish to be.