You Are What You Eat

A Poem by Mara

Childhood confusion of a common colloquialism

Last week in gym class,
Dr. Shlingerhimershmit said to me,
"I see that gut there boy!
Just remember,
You are what you eat."

I looked at her
Quietly blankly
Running reaction though my brain.
"I am certainly not broccolli"
I declared to this dame.

She rolled her eyes
and walked away
muttering,
"You know what I mean!"

The next few hours filled me with terror.
If I ate salad,
would I look a little green?
If I ate a chicken egg,
would feathers spring from me?
Were it scrambled
would I be all runny?

What could that sentence
even mean?

I sat at the lunch table
Staring at our substitute,
Mrs. Clawdeen,
Eating her cafeteria made
pepperoni pizza
With extra cheese,
was that why her faces was all
Red and greasy?

How long would it be
'Till she rolled away?
How long would it take,
'Till we turn into our sandwiches
And favorite snack cakes.

I ran back home,
Just about to devour a cookie
When I asked my mommy,
"Will this make me
flat and round."
Without a beat, she sounded,
"If you eat enough,
eventually"

How had I missed it before?
These changes we all must endure.

I watched my dinner plate
Wondering what it will feel like
To be Spaghetti and meat sauce.

Dad ate his garlic bread
So calm and obliviously,
It was the last thing he ate
At that fair meal.
He and the bread
Began to smell much the same.
Quickly he rose,
Said his farewells,
And whisked himself to bed.

Is that where we changed?
Deep in our sleep
Where not even we can see?

I had to test this theory
To full understand
What Dr. Shlingerhimershmit
Had said to me.

You are what you eat.

A pickle was my victim
And a camera was my plan.

I sat at the end of my bed
Eating slowly
As though it were my last.

I lay in bed
Crossed arms over my chest
Waiting for death
In the form of
Green and pickled skin.

The camera sat poised
right next to my bed
Waiting to capture
This most shocking event.

My closed slowly
For fear of my doom.
Seeing something,
I am not even be allowed to see.

By the time morning arose.
The camera was off,
Fallen to the ground,
With the lens broken
And my set up unwound.

I knew it!
My pure pickle force!
It took the best of me!
The tripod must have slid
In all the vinegary juices,
Or possibly I pelted it
In my rage,
Like hulk all mean and green,
just no limbs or face.

It was I!
The Incredible Pickle!

But, as the tape did show,
I knocked it over
with my very human toes
At exactly minute 7:08.

So never did know,
Until I grew to be old,
When and where
We fully change
To the creatures that we eat.

And now that I do know,
it seems much ashame
That pickles and cookies and cake
Are merely love handles and thieghs and skin breaks.
I think I'd perefer
To become The Increble Pickle.

But these thruths of realty
Certainly wont' stop me from trying.
So, please, my dear,
Pass me another pickle.