This is my mother's fault. No—the bleeding's fault. Cosmo's fault. Maybe it's Maybelline's fault. This is the word fat's fault, thin's fault. Their tumultuous love affair's fault. Descartes's fault, following Plato's fault, following biblical fault. (Let Eve eat.)

This is fork's fault, and knife's fault. This is plate's fault, a shape fault: that the circle from which we eat was molded with boundaries. This is corset, low-rise, skinny jeans' fault. Hide-and-seek's fault, airplane seat's fault, a boy's lap's fault. How-I-taught-myself-to-be-no-larger-than-a-man's fault. This is the body's fault. Intestinal, bitten cheek, acne's fault. This is my body's fault. This is my fault. An unknown god's fault.

What business did he have, making a mouth for both eating and speaking? What business did he have, vesting us with such power?

Amy Victoria Blakemore has had work in Kenyon Review, Paper Darts, Indiana Review and others. She lives in Connecticut.

Read her postcard.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Eddi van W..

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