I ate my way through the debates, the conventions,
that interminable election night. I ate through my classes

in the days after, trying to console my students. While you
appointed your cabinet of brutes, I was eating. I&rsquo;ve eaten

through the terrified phone calls, the sad texts. I ate
while my friends marched in the streets and I was too afraid

to join them, thinking my body might take up an unforgiveable
amount of space. A conservative commentator said that

&ldquo;without fat girls, there would be no protests&rdquo; against you.
That &ldquo;marching around and waving signs&rdquo; was some exercise,

but they also &ldquo;needed Atkins.&rdquo; The irony was most painful
as I watched the march on TV from my couch; radiant masses

moving through the city. I chanted along as if I were there. I ate.
Demagogue, our bodies cannot bear you. You get heavier

and heavier. I mine myself for strength until I can stand up
from beneath you. Shed you. Can I diet you away? Can I

purge us of you? You&rsquo;ve attached yourself to so many
of my vital organs, coating them until they are unrecognizable

opaque accumulations of fat. My heart: my mother,
an immigrant, afraid to not carry her passport at all times,

in case the wrong person hears her accent and deports her.
My lungs: my friends, terrified their families will be forced apart,

their children taken away. My stomach: my students, who had
swastikas drawn on their doors days after you were elected.

All of them asphyxiated by you. I have had to pretend
hope when I have none in order to keep them alive.

Do you understand me? I cannot stop eating. Everything
you touch turns to fat. It becomes difficult to take a breath.

Samantha Zighelboim

The Demagogue Diet

Three Poems

Samantha Zighelboim

The Day After the Election I Did Not Go Outside

The Demagogue Diet

Three Poems