breakwaters, Victoria BC

a moonlight memory


Polaroid flash kernals, warmed on elements of others. I am grateful for spells freed by the caring curious. I recall a breakwater in Victoria, British Columbia.  Sketchy stencil professes the boardwalk spanned a generous kilometer and a half into the ocean.  My memories radiate in absence of railings and sitting right on the end of earth, as though I was ocean center, ocean kernal me.  There was appreciation, unexpressed for personal space and its collective grace. Nobody talked to you, and nobody talked through you. My breakwater whispers stilled by moonshine.




island 1

I was fat,  like Shamu fat. I remember sitting solo in dunce corner of class.  You see, I couldn’t fit in the one size fits all desks , so the creepy custodian dragged in a table and chair in especially for me.  Special me, in my special chair at the back. Heads were swivels, snickers were chosen tongue. I would shrink, if only        

Next class, drama.  I adored drama, for I got to be anyone but yours, truly.  Wrote a skit about war, stood proud soldier before firing squad.  Miles quipped he “pitied my shoes”.  The laugh emerging loudest from audience was that of the cool-guy teacher. Later, same class,  Shane  b-cupped my boob as though I was a prom conquest.  I’m still awaiting a free dinner and pearls.

Being fat wasn’t about bulging out in the crowd.  It was an island life . I, the lonely place for birds to land,  just sorrow’s waves and sand. The sun rising and dropping in duty, each day pledging same. 

Restaurants were crushing , as I had to scout ones with booths I could suck it in and stuff behind. There’s nothing worse than having kitchen staff slather you in deep fryer grease to force you to their tasty tables.  Movie theaters were assholes too. I often spilled sticky like cola onto the moviegoer beside me.  Target elbows and mutters, welcome distractions from the kicks to my seat.

Mirror was a wasteland, no boy looking back at me.  Just folds, and rolls and skin and flesh and sweat, and fears and bad breath, bath towel stretched like face-cloth around my girth. The inner bully, only getting worse.

Just a heavy kid, in a heavier world.

© Anthony Gorman 2019