Aerik Francis
A Story About My Body
After Robert Hass
In a once vivid dream, two young lovers sat in a penthouse flat at the Burj Khalifa. A toilet in the basement bursted, and they were responsible. The flat’s true owner returned, and the lovers retreated out of fear. They rappelled 4,000 feet off the skyscraper, placed on the edge of a massive cliff in the dream– one of those dreams where a racing heart awakens the sleeping body.
In once vivid memories, they called each other babe. They confidently used the word dating. They each envisioned introducing the other to friends as my boyfriend. One said to the other, “You impress me.” Approval can be like a drug. One said to the other, “I’ve been losing sleep talking to you.” They dreamt they were in love.
In a memory of a night riddled with nostalgia, they drove toward the Rocky Mountains, toward the end of the road. Over 7,000 feet above sea level, they sat atop Lookout Mountain on the hood of their parked car. One lover felt uneasy in his gut– he was dissatisfied with the illusions, the liminal dream space. They finally kissed. Their lips quivered. For each, a unique sense of embarrassment. And disgust.
“I know you like me. I know you’d want to have me– but you can’t. Or you don’t. Or you won’t.”
“You’re reading me like a book. No, I don’t feel attracted to you, physically.”
“Oh. Is it because I am fat?”
“Yes.”
“...”
“When I first read your dating profile I thought you sounded amazing– but I was never really attracted to you. Still, I wanted to hold your
hand. And I wanted to kiss you a couple times in the car. Whenever you get excited and start smiling, I just want to touch you...”
In their deepest desires they wanted to cut the fat.
In a once vivid dream they were lovers.
In an act toward remembrance, the fat lover left. He left the other lover with a book to read. Wretched of the Earth. It was a mistake.
In a vivid parallel present, the fat lover loves without romance, without partnership, without speaking, without second thoughts of it all. The fat lover loves fat. The other lover loves another.
In a recurring dream, there are spiders. The walls of the room extend infinitely outward, the ceiling ascends upward. A smog of spiders
descends from web-strings, ever-approaching. Unrepelled, they swarm over the body. They become tattooed.
In once vivid memories, they called each other babe. They confidently used the word dating. They each envisioned introducing the other to friends as my boyfriend. One said to the other, “You impress me.” Approval can be like a drug. One said to the other, “I’ve been losing sleep talking to you.” They dreamt they were in love.
In a memory of a night riddled with nostalgia, they drove toward the Rocky Mountains, toward the end of the road. Over 7,000 feet above sea level, they sat atop Lookout Mountain on the hood of their parked car. One lover felt uneasy in his gut– he was dissatisfied with the illusions, the liminal dream space. They finally kissed. Their lips quivered. For each, a unique sense of embarrassment. And disgust.
“I know you like me. I know you’d want to have me– but you can’t. Or you don’t. Or you won’t.”
“You’re reading me like a book. No, I don’t feel attracted to you, physically.”
“Oh. Is it because I am fat?”
“Yes.”
“...”
“When I first read your dating profile I thought you sounded amazing– but I was never really attracted to you. Still, I wanted to hold your
hand. And I wanted to kiss you a couple times in the car. Whenever you get excited and start smiling, I just want to touch you...”
In their deepest desires they wanted to cut the fat.
In a once vivid dream they were lovers.
In an act toward remembrance, the fat lover left. He left the other lover with a book to read. Wretched of the Earth. It was a mistake.
In a vivid parallel present, the fat lover loves without romance, without partnership, without speaking, without second thoughts of it all. The fat lover loves fat. The other lover loves another.
In a recurring dream, there are spiders. The walls of the room extend infinitely outward, the ceiling ascends upward. A smog of spiders
descends from web-strings, ever-approaching. Unrepelled, they swarm over the body. They become tattooed.
BodyAquatic | BodyHistoric
Beginning with lines by Derek Walcott
Aerik Francis is a Queer Black & Latinx poet and teaching artist based in Denver, Colorado, USA. They have poetry published widely, links of which may be found at their website phaentompoet.com .