Watching James Gandolfini in a rom-com, 
his big vulnerable body, strong and hurt, 
his tenderness toward the female lead, 
who of course has an eating disorder, 
reminds me of my father. My mother. 
Bookends and mirror twins of America's 
number one industry and obsession: weight. 
So that the jumbo popcorn in the movie
theater scene must be tempered with 
a discussion about extra butter, a shaming 
and a shushing, crushing the soft white 
fluffiness of a kernel sprung brilliantly 
into a flat bug on the floor. A joy-kill. 
Just as my childhood had been filled 
with mountains of microwave popcorn bags, 
dampened with Diet Coke. My distinct 
lower abdomen, house to the intestines, 
a pantry of sorts. My dance teacher 
placing her hands in the perimeter of that 
field once told me: That's where you need to 
drop the weight. For the rest of that summer, 
I ran every day. Dad liked to tell us he 
was the true athlete in the family. 
How he used to jog from Point A to Point B. 
Which I heard as shame because our mom 
could beat him in a race at that point, 
a taut suntanned bone, she had guns 
for muscles. His knees were busted. 
In the movie, James Gandolfini gets 
the girl and I get embarrassed to see 
them kiss, as if they were my parents. 

Katie Kemple (she/her) has been published by Chestnut Review, Rattle, and Whale Road Review, among other publications. You can read more of her work at katiekemplepoetry.com.