Bloated by a meal I didn’t want, I ripple like a hippo in
mud. You once claimed that life was a custard pie, but now have demonstrated
that it’s a roast fowl of any variety, slogged down with squash, beans,
carrots, and mashed potatoes. Stuffing, of course. The stuffing from the
world’s oldest and saddest sofa. Remember when we played man and wife on your
family sofa while your father dozed over his bible and your mother herded the
laundry? That’s the very sofa that has given up its stuffing to flatter this
oven-tempered bird. I ate too much because you threatened me with tiny sneers
that would topple a gnome. Now the eruption of secret gases. Now the layering
of fat on fat. How many cells must I burst with my private disdain? How often
must I re-buckle my belt? No wonder a previous generation preferred braces,
suspenders, or a rope. You want to merge me into that past generation with
hardly a sigh. That will happen once this cold snap snaps. Then the genius of
Christmas will flatter us into music we don’t understand. The old superstitions
will apply, and the meal that has so distended me will erupt with an Etna of
delight.
William Doreski’s work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently A Black River, A Dark Fall.