Whose body is this, anyway? I glance
in Mirror, Mirror at these fleshly parts
tout-à-coup-morphosed into those of aunts
and foremothers, god help me, jiggly arms,
tummy and butt full-throttle adiposed
straight on past zaftig. What has happened here?
I understand: metabolism slows
by some inhuman fraction every year,
and mine, it seems, is now that of a slug
such that, one generous Italian meal
(una mezza porzione? not here, love)
means, next day, three pounds extra on the scale.
I'm trying (pass the wine) not to be cynical.
Tomorrow (promise) I'll hit the elliptical.
Hot Flash Sonnets