A clothing store that refuses to stock their shelves

for any body prepared to hand them money

for said clothing is a joke and fat people

are not the punchline. The word fat

is not a spit bullet in the “war on obesity.”

Between hanging pants and shirts there is room

to dance and twirl. No tiny corners

in the back of the store for the largest of us,

no bruises from bumping into racks

spaced for bodies smaller than mine.

There is no plus size. No extended size.

I have never cried in a fitting room

because my mother loved her body so much

I learned to do the same. The cellulite

dimpling my thighs and ass is cute.

Like dimples framing a smile.

Long sleeves and cardigans are reserved

for cool weather and in the warm sunshine

unsheathed fleshy arms sweat and glisten.

When I say I am fat, no one says You’re not fat,

you’re beautiful. People think BMI means

Buying More Ice cream or Big Motherfucking Iceberg

or Better Mind the Ichthyosaur.

There are no weight limits. Roller coasters

are full of fat bodies that loop de loop

and jiggle with joy. We no longer sardine ourselves

into flying tin cans. Dignity matters

more than profit. When I need Plan B,

it’s made to work for me. My cheeks

never blossom into plump, red strawberries

when my family reminds me I was called

dumpling butt. Shame is a dead language,

a bitterness tongues no longer taste. A sweet tooth

is not a curse. There is no lingering heartburn

of better work this off at the gym, no sour bite

of are you sure you don’t want the salad?

Stretchmarks are marbling in the statue of us

and no one carves themselves smaller.

Guilt is not a side dish served with every meal

and eating is pleasure. There are no teas,

no pills to shit and vomit yourself

into a thinner you the world has called better.

My body is not so loud the doctor

cannot hear why I need them. Their first suggestion

is not a 95% failure rate. The word diet

no longer exists and every

body is a miracle.