Size / / /

They don't have sex or else
the men would disappear,
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.

Sandi Leibowitz has been, among other things, the Sands Point Hag, a psaltery player, a secretary at NY's Museum of Natural History, a fundraising associate, and a school librarian. Her speculative fiction and poetry may be found at Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit, Luna Station Quarterly, and other far-out places.
Current Issue
5 Jun 2023

Jackson sat at Kay’s bedside, one of her hands laid atop his, palm to palm, fingertips against the soft inside of her wrist. His fingers measured her temperature and pulse, her blood pressure, and her blood oxygen levels. She was no weaker or stronger today than yesterday. He was unsurprised and uneasy. Her vitals were regular with sleep. She had been resting when he returned from the shore.
You do not mean this as slang.
certain people of the town go outside, kick off their shoes
Friday: The Half-Drowned by Trynne Delaney 
Issue 29 May 2023
By: L Chan
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