I hate Christmas. Every December, the seasonal blues hit as soon as Thanksgiving ends. I wish I could fall asleep on the last weekend in November and wake up on January 2. A friend of mine, who is in AA, suggested that I should try faking it until I make it. So, I have been dressing in a red sweater and green leggings and wearing a little red cap. I look like an aging Christmas elf. (I despise Xmas outfits, so I am going all-out.) I even have a holly berry pin in my white hair and a blinky tree brooch on my sweater. If anyone looks at me funny, I smile and say, 'Tis the season. And if they ask how I am, I say, “Jolly, very jolly, thank you so much. Are you jolly, too?”
Well, are you?
Right now, how could I (or anyone) not be jolly when listening to Maria Carey sing “All I Want for Christmas." Or Bobby Helms sing “Jingle Bell Rock” or Andy Williams croon “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Or Michael Bublé, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” Who can resist singing along with them?
And by golly I do feel almost jolly imagining a world in which I am someone else, someone who loves all the music and manic shopping and traffic and decorating and cooking and office-partying and fruit cakes and eggnog (I think fruit cake and eggnog should be outlawed) . . . If I were someone else, I might even write poems about this other life/world in which I can become someone else.
Which is exactly what Denise Duhamel does in her hilarious and brilliant new chapbook, In Which. Reading her poems, I feel less like a grinch and more like I am in the company of a kindred spirit. Oh, Denise, I think to myself as I read, your poems are a gift to the world.
POEM IN WHICH I PURSUED MY DREAM OF DOING STAND-UP 
by Denise Duhamel
When articles I read in 1980 demanded
a woman comic make fun of her appearance,
I went for it. I embraced my fat because John Waters
thought fat was hilarious. In fact, I ate so much
I doubled my size and wore small, unflattering
T-shirts to highlight my stomach rolls. I wasn’t afraid
to be raunchy or gross. I even farted
on stage, becoming a caricature of everything ugly
I dreaded inside me. I teased my frizzy hair to make it
even frizzier. I took my cues from Joan Rivers
and Phyllis Diller—On my honeymoon I put on
a peekaboo blouse. My husband peeked and booed.
I tried to repel men as much as possible
with my awesome, non-conforming physicality.
I didn’t care if I embarrassed my family.
I didn’t care anymore about diets or dates.
I ate whole cakes and didn’t even think
about throwing them up. I went to late night
open mics, wisecracking through the jeers and booing
until audiences got used to me. I took their abuse,
gave it right back. I wore down the drunks and soon
they were laughing, even snorting sometimes.
Though still controversial, I was on the cover
of Paper and Ms. while The Golden Girls
made its TV debut. By the time Roseanne Barr
came around, I’d already taken all up the space
in that roly-poly lane. I let her open for me anyway.
At the end of each of my Comedy Central specials,
I would invite her back into the spotlight
and we’d bump our humongous bellies.
Roseanne grew bored. She was a deep thinker,
growing more profound with each gig.
When Jane Austen came back in vogue
with the movies Clueless and Sense and Sensibility,
I started my own production company
and hired so many women—even skinny
pretty comics, ones I never imagined
could break through. My wide ass opened wide
doors for everyone. Finally I had boyfriends,
handsome and loyal and attracted to my big fat
bank account. But by the time Beyoncé reunited
with Destiny’s Child for the Super Bowl halftime,
my overeating and slovenly ways caught up
with me. When I had bypass surgery and lost
two hundred pounds, I knew my career in comedy
was over. Fans called me a traitor and my latest
boyfriend lost interest too—no more drunken parties
and freezers stocked with Haagen-Dazs
and Tombstone pizzas. I had to pivot so I straightened
my hair and changed my name to give myself
a second act. Roseanne had just won the Pulitzer
for her verse. I put my efforts into becoming a minor poet.
—from In Which
2024 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner