They don't have sex or else
the men would disappear,
engulfed,
eclipsed like earth straddled by the moon.

They have no hands.
They do no work,
except the rotund mamas
stirring their stewpots,
underarms a-jiggle.

They have no feet.
Where shall they walk?
How should they climb?
No one will dance with them.

They have no voices
except to sing opera
—but then it's all over.
Better they shut up.

All fat women are the same fat woman,
double chins redundant.
They have no biographies
because they have
no souls.

Fat men,
now, they’re substantial.
They are pockets stuffed with
speeches and dollars but

fat women are vapors;
they pour down as acid rain,
infest lagoons,
hex the subways,
ice the runways,
jam the airways,
rust the metal,
curdle the cream,
and cause male-pattern baldness.