Tammy Smith

Tammy Smith, a social worker and a single mother from New Jersey, draws inspiration from her work in mental health. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Grand Little Things, Merion West, New Verse News, Eunoia Review, Synkroniciti, Poem Alone, Verse-Virtual, and others.

At My First OA Meeting

I worry I won’t lose enough weight to fit

into my swimsuit. If I dwell on the smell of

other larger women in their too-tight shirts,

I might gag. I start to sweat. Nobody warned me

about how much newcomers would raise

the room's temperature. I’m tempted to leave,

but my shoes will click across the hardwood.

It’s hard to sit on a folding metal chair

in the middle of a church basement. I pray

it doesn’t collapse. How many pounds do I need

to drop before anyone notices? Three-quarters of

the way through the meeting, I couldn’t care less

about why a group of plus-sized people binge.

I guess I’m selfish. I can’t stop obsessing about

my excess skin. I hate how it hangs in wet layers

over my midsection. I can’t wait to go home

and empty my fridge filled with Devil Dogs,

Twinkies, and Ding Dongs. The foil-wrapped snacks

mom packed sparkled like Christmas stars

at the bottom of my Wonder Woman lunchbox.

I miss those little handwritten notes she left

tucked inside a napkin. After dad poked me

in the belly, I wore a long sweater to hide

my stomach, even in June. He laughed when I

couldn’t fit on the high-flying swing ride

at an amusement park. When I cried, he denied

everything. Memory, like hunger, is unreliable.

It stretches or shrinks like a funhouse mirror

and distorts how things appear—especially during

the summer, at the height of carnival season.