Winter has crept in two months late
and the perfectly coiffed women
have pulled their puffy vests out of storage
their thin legs encased in washed denim
and riding boots that have never seen the stirrups of a horse
I wear leggings and oversized tunics
in hopes of conjuring some sort of disappearing act
for a quarter of the calories that cling like static to my skeleton
Two years ago, me and weight parted ways
only for it to creep back in with every bite of comfort
The cold means I can hide and hopefully shed this cocoon
of hormone-induced fluff
not quite marshmallow
depression and worry made flesh
When my joints flare
I take to the tub
filled with salts and herbs
a witches brew to heal me
back to halfway
Living like this
makes a bad actor of me
turning down invites
or trailing behind
a husband who never ages
or lacks energy
The salts pick at the pain deep down
the knots go lax
and the tingling in my fingertips lessen
I listen for the soft footfalls
and the sleek arms that will lift me
bundle me softly in rehomed hotel towels
and say something funny
the high-pitched words puncturing the air
but jumbled
as the tub drains
I appear to only him
belly heavy and round-faced
a soft angel of some sort