by Eric Odynocki
sulks in the bathroom corner.
It taunts me every time with three digits.
I tell myself it’s muscle mass although
my waistband would beg to differ through its
gritted strands. And I think whoever
coined the term muffin top was a far better
poet than I’ll ever be. Such imagery
and metaphor. Sometimes I wish
the cupid-red pixels would spell out
I love you. If I remember physics correctly,
my weight is simply how much Earth wants
to hug me to its center. It loves me less
on a mountaintop. Is our planet really so
lonely that it pants to smother us all
in its molten core? A pop star would lip sync
it’s so tragic how we always burn the ones we love.
And I’d change subjects and point out
core is from the Latin word for heart
and that it’s equally tragic no one knows
where the shape comes from. I’d love
to know its backstory as I would with
everything. Everyone. It’s how I can jigsaw
the present together. Maybe that’s why
the world is such a mess. In this spinning
foundling home, we scramble to nurse rows
and rows of wailing issues that reasons orphaned.
Eric Odynocki is a teacher and writer from New York. His work is often inspired by his experience as a first-generation American of Mexican, Ukrainian, and Jewish descent. Eric’s work has been published in Gordon Square Review, Cold Mountain Review, American Poetry Journal, PANK, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere.