I guess  I write poems now because this is the fourth poem I’ve written in two months. This came together in about two weeks but I think I might be done with it and it might be done with me.

Hips.

I didn’t understand the roundness, fullness of my hips growing
they stretched my childhood, chased it away
And as I grew up into them
And their sway
I wished for thin, shapely thighs
for twig legs to stand on
or toothpicks
noodles, matchsticks, sewing pins capped off with stilettos — flesh exclamation points!
those legs that couldn’t handle these child bearing hips
that would bear no fruit
Didn’t want these wide truck hips
built like 18 wheelers for a caboose that just. won’t. quit.
even if I wasn’t built to haul,
or to go the distance
if I’m not made for admiring
standing mannequin motionless, a window model
these hips aren’t for children to climb out of or soft hands to dissolve into
they are all natural homegrown trees
wide beams that hew deep into the ground
pedestals of worship made of velveteen marble,
ancient stone, generational steel;
a foundation so strong that when you load my arms up,
I stand still.