In your biography I planned
an entire chapter on food. That
is a true thing though few writers
acknowledge it. Once, I was
forced to sit down and read a
stack of Lincoln biographies
at gunpoint as the price for my
freedom. They are not menus.
You said no, too boring! You
would rather eat it than write it,
your mouth shedding Pringles,
deceit gurgling in your pipes.
SO WHY TORTURE ME
by sharing vicariously every
tidbit that crossed your lips?
This is where it gets interesting.
You joining 12-Step programs
for over-eaters and running to
Dairy Queen until they fired you
and then starting again. So many
times I lost count. You reveled
in the thrill of outwitting those
groups and bragging about it.
You were the caped crusader of
the foodies, the Arsène Lupin of
croissant-lovers everywhere!
Except I guess it’s hard to pee
in the bat suit, so there’s that.
You are a rule-breaker I would
say for the umpteenth time, and
you replied, I know, I know, in
the soft voice religious people
carry into their confessionals
in the hopes of calling up the
ghost of redemption. Does it
ever appear I asked? But you
were too busy thawing a pizza.
Finally, we compromised and
replaced your biography with
this poem. And then, you died,
so there will not be any more
compromises. This is it! You
always said it was hot in that
apartment and hard to breathe
and you then you proved it.
A poem is better, you said,
because you know too much
about me to be my biographer.
Watch out, I said, because I
can put as much into this poem
as you can put into your chili.
These are true statements.
Just to clarify, the bonus
material includes a chapter
on your bodily fluids (a
favorite topic) and your
medicine cabinet (another
fascination), along with
speculation on the identity
of the man you claimed
lived under your bed. It
seems you had been a nurse
at some point, but it didn’t
agree with you, in much the
same way that Europe could
never agree with Napoleon.
I might as well share one of
the stories that was meant
for the book. How, lying in
your tent on a family outing,
you awoke at three a.m.
needing to pee and found
that you could not get up.
You promptly called your
sister on the phone waking
her and asked if she would
come out into the woods
and help you pee. She told
you never to call back and
hung up. There you were!
Feeling your way forward
alone with unseen guides!
Has there ever been a truer
biography written than this?
You explained that you
finally managed to get to
your feet by climbing up a
nearby suitcase, stumbling
out of the tent to find that
there’s no escape from the
darkness at 3 am, I mean
it’s not the Champs-Élysées,
so you stood there entirely
lost in the woods and had
a nice, long, satisfying pee
in your pants exactly like
Batman would have done.
Photo by Sajjad Ahmadi on Unsplash
