IHOP

Let's workshop this poem about people with body-ody-ody (and often correlated Trendelenburg gaits) lumbering after church to the international house of pancakes!

IHOP

Having few traces left of the will to abuse themselves
in the old-school ways—fasting, burning the skin, 
remaining in uncomfortable positions—that perhaps
only a few Christians still harbored inside, not only
did at least the black Baptists at hand, their religion
given to them by whites (just like their last names), 
pride themselves on refusing to climb stairs (“I needs
me an elevator after how low that preachin’ got me!”), 
and on taking second helpings of dessert (“Guuurl!”),
and on nails-did hours at beauty salons (“Werk!”),
and on expensive cars and jewelry (“That’s how I be!”),
they also downright refused to rise early on Sundays, 

which was why their church services—ministered 
by circus-performers in attire as rich as their flesh
(and with a count of how many souls they had saved,
to bust out at interchurch conventions)—ended so late 
and they lumbered with Trendelenburg gaits to IHOP, 
second church, around two, where in their gorging—
and in their groan-rising from tight booths for photos 
(all the women ass out with one-hand-akimbo sass)—
they cut such wonderful Christian figures (a claim, 
no, that need not be taken as ironic since, after all, 
the obese, diabetic, and immobilized are the meek:
what is bad for the waistline is good for the soul!).

This poem is unpublished

Photo: badfatblackgirl.com