Seventy inches, maybe 69, all mine
hazel eyes, moody hair, constellations of freckles
this upper lip that gets caught on a tooth
skin that erupts in chills at the sound of a stretched cotton ball
a throat that tightens and eyes that sting
more often as the years pass, sometimes from joy
other times not
I’m getting better with not
with not fair and not my problem
not like others and not ready yet
The gift of these years is this
my 70 inches, or maybe 69, finally fit
I touch each one, rather than shrink from
I know the outline and color my edges
I can stay in the lines or bleed beyond
the reflexive snarl of my twenties—still there
but the scar tissue of 40 reminds me of its price
the reflex rests
the angles of my face carved from the flesh of my youth
Three lives I’ve made, grown in my body, fed from my body
and loved with the parts of me that can’t be measured
they say that we shrink, our bones more brittle, our bodies less supple
but these lines of mine, curves and hollows, tears and roars
they are stronger, less tentative, magnificently unique
I take my 69 inches, plus one, and I run
no longer from myself but to the next yes.
Tagged: body, Confidence, life, poetry
This is so fierce and beautiful.
Wow, yes. Amanda, you inspire me to take ownership of this body that has created and nurtured life and walked me through many years of joys and sorrows. Thank you. xox
Ownership, yes, take it, love it.
I love this…’the reflexive snarl of my twenties’ is so true here, too! What a beautiful ode to all that we are.
Boy, I had some snarls. I love all the ripples of my evolving Amandas. We all should find fondness for our selves, no?
This is so wonderful.
Oh my, thank you for this. Lovely. Strong. Brave. Fierce. Loving. Accepting. Truth.
“… lives I’ve made, grown in my body, fed from my body
and loved with the parts of me that can’t be measured”
Those lines really speak to me right now, thank you for sharing! xo.