The World’s Fattest Man

Corey Mesler

I was a young sylph. I
was clueless.
I had 50 cents and I
paid to see him.
We were led in a semi-
circle trudge round his
seat. Not three feet
from me, his face
was indifferent, perhaps
masking contempt.
I was shamed. I
knew we were
the freaks; we wanted to
see something worse
than us, more animal,
more meat. I went
home and my mother
had left a cake out on
the counter, multi-
tiered and beautiful,
like a castle, like
fairy tale fare: dark,
mysterious, transformative.