*To listen to me read this poem instead, click here for part 1, and here for part 2.*
At The Altar of a Flat Stomach
at the alter of a flat stomach
we worship
to the gods and goddesses of
toned and tight
curvy but light
we bow and we pray
we serve and we sanctify
we devote and we deprive
ourselves of lives well lived
meals well enjoyed
memories well remembered
all to kneel at the alter
of small, thin,
wrinkle-free and perfectly plumped
pretty, put together,
chemically preserved
no scars or marks
of adventures had
laughs laughed
children birthed
or wars served
religiously we bow
relentlessly we worship
the very ideals
we wish were different
sick and tired
but waiting for what?
someone else to go first?
a socially constructed
balloon to burst?
but we are the builders
of the constructs constricting us
we are the worshippers
of the ideals who make not idols
the more we conform
the more words we write
in the story our children
are reading tonight
let us worship instead
what makes you you
what makes me me
let us pray instead
that we may be
someone’s permission
to take up space
someone’s reminder
she’s more than a face
for if a new religion
of expectations we want
we must first free ourselves
of the ones we still serve
if we’re tired of upholding
we have to stop building
if we’re tired of the script
then we have to quit reading
at the alter of a flat stomach
i have worshipped too long
of clear skin
cute clothes
highlighted cheeks
and a contoured nose
i’m tired
i don’t think
i can
keep up
i’m sad
i don’t know
how to start
cleaning up
besides with me
and my side of the street
to this cultural crime
i won’t be an accessory
for that’s what we are
when we worship skinny and pretty
the burglar in the bank
the bomber in the tank
just following orders
set before us we say
turning our heads
to the role we play
weapons in hand
we beg for peace
through well-groomed lashes
we look for relief
and from this cult
we beg to break free
wait—
what’s that in our hands?
oh wait, it’s a key