FLESH

At fifteen, I am greater
than what the eye can see.
My body harbors
folds and folds of flesh
I hope to
disintegrate
using the commercially
acclaimed, Hydroxycut.

Walmart isn’t ready for me,
been contemplating my scheme,
many insecurities ago.
My inner enemy
is finally about to fall
in love with all of me
in the medicine aisle.

With my coat on—
a size big enough to cover the house
I no longer want to be,
I pick up the box
like a paying customer;
I can already feel
the fat cells zapping away.

At last,
I’ll look as good
as the personality
I’m known for,
dynamic
and determined.

In the bathroom stall,
I rip away the wrapping
like I’m throwing out
old, oversized clothes.
I tuck the miracle beans
in the bottom of my pocket.

An image
sprouts within me
of a burden free body
living confidently,
untied from unpleasant pounds,
basking
in this out-of-body experience,

but here I am,
caught in the flesh,
store security by the
paper dispenser,
waiting on me.

Poet and theater instructor Oak Morse was born and raised in Georgia. He was the winner of the 2017 Magpie Award for Poetry in Pulp Literature as well as a Semi-Finalist for the 2020 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry. Awarded the 2017 Hambidge Residency, Oak’s work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Pank, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Menacing Hedge, Nonconformist Mag, Gone Lawn, and elsewhere. Oak has a B.A. in Journalism from Georgia State University and he currently lives in Houston, Texas where he teaches creative writing and performance and leads a youth poetry troop, The Phoenix Fire-Spitters. (@oak.morse)

FLESH

At fifteen, I am greater
than what the eye can see.
My body harbors
folds and folds of flesh
I hope to
disintegrate
using the commercially
acclaimed, Hydroxycut.

Walmart isn’t ready for me,
been contemplating my scheme,
many insecurities ago.
My inner enemy
is finally about to fall
in love with all of me
in the medicine aisle.

With my coat on—
a size big enough to cover the house
I no longer want to be,
I pick up the box
like a paying customer;
I can already feel
the fat cells zapping away.

At last,
I’ll look as good
as the personality
I’m known for,
dynamic
and determined.

In the bathroom stall,
I rip away the wrapping
like I’m throwing out
old, oversized clothes.
I tuck the miracle beans
in the bottom of my pocket.

An image
sprouts within me
of a burden free body
living confidently,
untied from unpleasant pounds,
basking
in this out-of-body experience,

but here I am,
caught in the flesh,
store security by the
paper dispenser,
waiting on me.

Poet and theater instructor Oak Morse was born and raised in Georgia. He was the winner of the 2017 Magpie Award for Poetry in Pulp Literature as well as a Semi-Finalist for the 2020 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry. Awarded the 2017 Hambidge Residency, Oak’s work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Pank, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Menacing Hedge, Nonconformist Mag, Gone Lawn, and elsewhere. Oak has a B.A. in Journalism from Georgia State University and he currently lives in Houston, Texas where he teaches creative writing and performance and leads a youth poetry troop, The Phoenix Fire-Spitters. (@oak.morse)