I was fat then.
Not well-rounded,
not hearty-
Fat.
There I am photographed:
hefty-sized pants,
extra-large t-shirt,
empty potato-chip bag on the floor.
Alone, I hold the picture,
confronting it as I confront
all unpleasantness:
with tightening throat,
and silence.
Beneath the shirt is
a bulging, ashamed stomach.
Mother was the photographer. Mother,
who must have felt my puberty
hadn’t been documented properly.
Mother entered my bedroom
with her new camera, a Christmas gift.
I adjusted my shirt, looked up, posing,
and Mother snapped.
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