Poetry

Body Chant

They’re fleshy lumps,

rounded, wobbly,

muscle showing underneath.

I’m not a doll on a stand

waiting to be turned

and scrutinized from every angle.

I have stretchmarks

mapping out every part of my life,

scars and pockmarks,

bruises, cuts, scrapes,

a papercut from last Thursday.

It carries me well,

I don’t move like a puppet

or a stiff-knee Barbie

(I always preferred rock-climbing Cindy, anyway).

I can twist, turn,

leap, smack that

sharp tongue of yours

so hard you swallow it,

read until my mind is numb.

And live.

Yes, I can certainly do that.