“If Body Dysmorphia Follows Me to Death” by Megan Mary Moore

Megan Mary Moore


It’s proportional to your weight, Charon explains
as he peels the coins from my eyelids.
This would get a girl about half your size across.
He has a yellow rubber rain hat that protects
him from the Styx spit.
He is used to this, I’m not.
No one told me, I say, meaning the price.

No mirrors in Ohio? he asks, meaning my size.
So, I’m stuck? We look at the river together. Stuck.
He hops in his boat, and I sit shoreside,
look back to the cloud I came from,
dancing away fast from me. And I look
to Charon. He waves, rowing away.
Just doing his job.

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019


Megan Mary Moore: “Before I could write, I carried a small notebook and oversized souvenir pencil with me everywhere I went. One day I asked my father to read what I had written. He explained to me these weren’t real words. Just pages and pages of incoherent lines of cursive gibberish, nothing real. I had assumed you put your pencil to the paper and poetry appeared. In a way every word I write, real or not, is for her, thanking her and proving she wasn’t exactly wrong.” (web)

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