Yamini Krishnan
Volume 1 | Issue 7 [November 2021]

After changing into baggy, already-stained

t-shirts, we set up the feast. Plastic containers

everywhere, we always order too much

garlic naan, and today I want to apologise

for my unkemptness. You are the first boy

I have pigged out in front of, in a friend’s

borrowed shirt, hair up, and bhuna masala

under my nails. To be scared of eating in public—

in the common room, in a crowd of people,

in front of a boy who has seen me naked— is to

relearn shame, but tonight, we’re so hungry and

the chicken curry is so violently orange, and

I’m trying to let myself give you a chance—

to give my body allowances, to let myself enjoy food

and myself and the way we are together.  I’m so fond

 of eating without abandon, and so scared to do it.

I’m so fond of you and watching my friends toss

chutney packets at each other as we clean up

after dinner. In silver light, our fondness is mixed

with messiness. Our bodies acting like they do, while

we are full and happy and together— and for once,

I’m letting myself live without thinking of scales.