Read Poem: Parmesan, by Emily Teitsworth

I.
When you step out of the shower,
do not get dressed.

Retrieve a sharpie from your desk and draw
a dotted line along your thighs, your stomach
and the undersides of your arms.

In the kitchen, take a wide-handled chef’s knife
and cut along the lines. Make sure your hands are steady,
or you might lose the good meat.

Use your grater to give your cheekbones and your nose
a smoother symmetry. Recycle the parmesan skin.

II.
Return to the bathroom.

Drag your razor across your calf and dead skin
will peel away like slices of cheddar cheese.

Admire your body, but something is still off.

Take your fathers pliers and use them
to straighten your teeth.

Take your mothers paints and combine them to make
that ideal apricot skin of hers.

Spread it across your body with an old, snapped paintbrush.
You will need three coats to cover the freckles.

III.
Find your jeans. Find your collared shirt.
Find your sandals.

Ignore the stinging. Ignore the darkening stains
on your cheeks and knees and fingertips.

Open the door and walk to school.
Hope simultaneously someone will notice
and that no one will.

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By wildsoundwritingfestival

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