Progress

I remember when I used to show you pictures of deprived girls, With ribs that protruded like the fingers of a rake And you’d give me this dumb look and say things like, “That’s a little unrealistic, don’t you think?” Yet you didn’t bat an eyelash when we’d sit in coffee shops And I’d plug the 30 calories from my drink into a calculator. Yet you didn’t bat an eyelash when we’d make love And the sound of my stomach rumbling Would drown out the creaking of your bedsprings. You called the deterioration of my body “progress” And all 106 pounds of me wanted so desperately for you to stop. I narrated the feeling of hunger pains in graphic detail In hopes that you would insist that I put an end to them, But you never did. I guess you took comfort in my empty stomach Because it matched your empty life. Well I’ve gained twenty-five pounds since then But I bet you’re still a miserable person. The four men that I’ve loved since you Say that I am beautiful. The four men that I have loved since you Stay up late with me eating chocolates And reading the poetry that you never understood. Nowadays, my life is as full as my stomach And that, my dear, is “progress.”