Sarah Grindlay

i knew i was fat

the day i climbed into dad's
wheelbarrow to bury myself in branches
he'd lopped from our sycamore, and
stomped a foot-hole out the bottom. he
left the punch-mark, so every time he did
yard work, my fatness followed like a
snigger. maples leaves. silver twigs.
spider-laced cedar fronds. i'd prowl
round our lawn, stuff debris to my
ribcage till my arms were bursting, and i
was pregnant with greenery—call me
mother earth—is she full?
the best branches were spoils of the
compost. bruised or mossy, gray at the
tips—there was always one i could call
mine. i'd prep a pot filled with soil from
the vegetable garden: dig a hole where
anything might go.