Sweet Round Baby

livia meneghin

The seats on the T are too close together.

On crowded days I fold 
my arms & press my knees 
inwards,

the elder with her grocery cart full 
of Market Basket bags 
and the manspreading businessman 
with air pods 
need room to sit comfortably.

*

At Lazy Susan’s café, my chair has arms 
so my hips can’t fit 
as I sit.
Thankfully there’s only a pair 
at the nearby table for three 
with a free armless chair.

I politely request the spare.
The people nod.
I make the swap 
swiftly so they don’t have time 
to question why 
my body wasn’t good enough
for what I had.

*

Only Bermuda shorts 
in the Plus-sized Section at Kohl’s—

too much 
fabric in the crotch
give in the waist.

The shorts from the Women’s Section
only go up to size 14

barely passing my knees
in the changing room.

*

I ordered up, a 3X, out of worry—what if
I couldn’t zip it up when the time came? What if
it hugged me so tight I sweat and chafed,
or ripped as I walked down the aisle,
arm in arm with some friend of the groom
I don’t know?

J doesn’t need extra stress. But despite
getting the dress hemmed and taken in a bit 
(in the bust as needed), and despite 
my not losing weight from December to May
(which doesn’t really mean anything),

my bridesmaid dress
is still too big on the big day.

*

P.S.
I had wanted this poem to be longer, 
especially after listening to Dr. Meg Day
question why poets desire poems
to be tight instead of chubby or tall,

but while writing I am suddenly 
forgetful of all the times design 
predicted I’d be smaller or left me 
swimming—
           I wish I were swimming
at Plum Island, then resting 
on a towel with my love who’d trace 
sand clung to my muscles.
We’d chit chat about the young plover
spotted by binoculars earlier that morning
saying, how fluffy
a cotton ball on stilts
what a sweet round baby
doing some great growing and exploring,
knowing she will find her way.