Too fat to hang

The relationship must die.
His thighs have become pillows
wallowing in brie,

hips, strudeled reminders
of Vesuvius choked
not with dust, but cream.

No way to fake it,
breathe deep before nightfall,
ease yourself from underneath

a beefy day, slip off, freshen up,
later creep back lithely, ready
to be on top, talk communication,

quell unease clinging like chunks
of tallow to your soul.
Support groups all gone,

friendships growing mold,
vow now to lick back
with hunger, face this foe

head on, swan dive
into hollandaise, swallow hard,
then hold. It's the end --

no good to pretend
nooses are chocolate, gallows
have dessert bars, not stairs.

Timothy Pilgrim