artwork: ralph murre
Marrowbones
by
Florence
The
fat women in the Coney Island steam bath
pinched my cheek and laughed at
nothing,
sweat
gleaming off their skin and coarse, curly hair,
not a bone to be seen anywhere,
not
in my aunt’s long breasts, none in the flesh
of my mother’s belly. I grew up in the shelter
of kitchen gossip, amplitude nourished by
yeasty smells,
pillows of soft-rising dough, a
feminine language
that
taught me where the body begins, its armature
concealed, its health augmented like good
soup.
By
sixth grade, I knew I was fat. I married
a man
with a flat stomach and an unrequited
hunger.
The
soup the Nazis fed him in their concentration camp
was thin as silk, what floated there
thinner still.
From
the aunts and mothers I learned wisdom is liquid,
rescue, a recipe they give to their
daughters.
When
the soup is done, I remove the bones,
scoop out the glutinous marrow, every
last shred.
I
spread it on fresh rye bread.
I watch him eat, and my heart gets
fat.
~
First appeared on The Pedestal
