On your thirtieth birthday, you find that your clothes
Belong to someone slimmer.
It’s like only your socks haven’t shrunk in the wash.
From then on, you remember
Undressing in front of a lover or mirror
To reach for the dimmer.

You run the same mile, but you run it in sand.
The sweat just wrings a sponge
That refuses to shrink, as puffy as ever.
You climb, you bike, you lunge,
But you cannot escape the body you have,
Your deadweight heart and lungs.

It is summer, you’re out, you’re living this summer
To death—but for some reason
Your body is busily padding itself
With fat, convinced it’s freezing.
It knows of a cold that will be when it gets here
A permanent season.

Articles by Amit Majmudar

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