About Mary

MARY

Mary had a little piece of lamb chop

left over from lunch

that she weighed on a white kitchen scale,

when all she really wanted was a tangy plate of barbeque

so greasy that her palm would grow wet from the moisture seeping through

her paper plate.


Her fleece,

an old, white pullover—

purchased second-hand,

at the Goodwill store down the road.


Everywhere that Mary went

her children had to go.

They bickered as she cooked dinner,

cried for another piece of candy,

and begged to eat Mc Donald’s

all the way to the bathroom where she barricaded herself

with a shot of vodka and a 2012 issue of Cosmopolitan

turned to “8 Ways to Dramatically Improve Your Sex Life.”

She cringed at each rhythmic knock on the door.


Mary had a small tear that almost formed

as she sat on her hands and knees for exactly one hour and twelve minutes

on a Friday evening

with a butter knife

scraping dried raisin spice oatmeal off of her kitchen floor

because she could not clean it up that morning

as she had to leave to drop off her children

and be at work on time–


Breathe,

because you are still not as drained as Mary.

I am not Mary,

I will write about Mary

And burn my index finger on a frying pan

thinking about Mary,

but I am not–


Mary had a grilled chicken salad the next afternoon

because she was eating lunch with friends

who also ate green, leafy salads,

and she never told them

that hidden in her Coach purse

was a Double Quarter Pounder.

Because she usually kept a Double Quarter Pounder handy,

just in case she was asked to lunch by friends who only ate salads.

Mary came home and checked Facebook

Where she saw a mother of three,

an airbrushed tan and a six pack

preaching to her,

“There’s no excuse mom,”


Her bedroom mirror accused her,

stretchmarks,

muffin top,

highlighted by black canyons under her eyes.

that night,

she slept,

and dreamed

that she stared into waves of Sharks,

with four attachments

and a retractable cord.

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