Fat Kid, The
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Fat Kid, The - Paul Vermeersch
better.
The grass’ll be greener when pigs learn to fly,
since none of the pigs’ll come trampling by,
and the dirt’ll be richer,
the rain’ll be thicker,
and the pigs’ll be happier ’n pigs in shit
gliding from barn roof to slop trough to sty.
O the world will be better
(and a shitload wetter, if you consider the weather)
when pigs learn to fly.
Birth of a Fat Kid
Something’s gone wrong in the suburbs.
In backyards the June bugs
are going up in flames,
and a block away it’s raining, but it isn’t raining here.
Something is happening.
Sheet lightning in the south —
across the flatland of lawns and parking lots
the tall steel cylinders and concrete poles hum
a single note of million-watt juice
through the haywire crisscross of fat black cables
strung over Mississauga.
It comes whirring though the green transformer
into the yard.
You can feel it in your feet. The sign says
Do Not Touch — It’s
dangerous.
Relax, there’s beer
in the fridge, neighbours on lawn chairs.
There’s nothing much to do. It’s getting dark,
no one’s going anywhere.
Relax.
Each street, each crescent — like the city itself —
no reason to come here unless you come home to it.
A woman
pulls her sweatshirt to her knees, calls her girls in
from the street.
She’s pregnant again.
Can they afford this? He’s coming.
He will arrive when it’s cold, the air will sting
fingers and ears, a mouth
to feed, an ass to wipe, born the morning
of the Santa Claus parade, fat and jolly, a change
of plans, and the whole day ruined
for the girls.
She feels a kick and it weighs on her.
He’s already shifting his weight; maybe
he’s already disappointed about it.
There will be lights.
There will be painful insults, lightning
will strike the beach, and in the morning,
a lump of glass: 6 pounds, 11 ounces.
There will be strawberry shortcake, television shows,
tight-fitting casual slacks. . . .
There will be everything he will know in his life.
There will be everything there is to know
about a boy.
Nativity with Pound Cake
Heavy in the crèche, the child has messed himself.
Treetop, the angel stands: store-bought, plastic, and cheap —
but a symbol of love.
There is a genuine happiness these days, watching football,
eating chips.
Momma says to an in-law, "Well, maybe