I. Muffin top.
She is trying to learn to love
her muffin top the way
she loves endless free breadsticks at Olive Garden.
She figures a little something extra
is usually a good thing, when it comes to dinner deals and
guac at Chipotle, and so she is trying to learn to love
her muffin top the way
a baker loves their bread, kneading that soft, sticky
loaf with their bare hands, pounding that dough
with passion, the bread rising and
swelling with the yeast
under the red-hot heat
of the oven’s love.
She is trying to learn to love
her muffin top, as if
it were holy bread, as if it were the substance of life
and love itself, as if it could feed her
on her heart-hungry days, as if it too
could offer her salvation.
II. Shoulders.
She has come to love her shoulders
which she once resented, for their broadness,
for that expansive plain of angled collarbone, long and wide
like the ivory temples of Grecian cities, connected to
those twin pillars of her shoulders, holding steadfast
the gate of her ribcage, the imperfect architecture
of her body.
Yes, she has come to love her shoulders, these
power-suit, superhero shoulders, perfect for
backpacking and v-neck t-shirts,
boss-ass blazers and the 1980s, these
strong, broad, lifetime guarantee shoulders - oh yes,
these shoulders were built to last.
III. Wrists.
She has always loved her wrists,
thin and browned, even as a child,
playing architect in the golden shining eye
of the bright Hawaiian sun, fists sunk deep into
the hot grit of the white and black
and red Hawaiian sand.
She has always loved her wrists,
the way they twist and bend, mechanical
girl in the ballerina music box. She still remembers
the first time she showed her parents, how they stood
horrified, with their mouths hung like damp open caves,
like pale dead fish, wild-eyed and agape -
4 fingers and 1 thumb outstretched, making
a fan in the beige bristles of the carpet,
left to right, full 360.
She loves how it shocks
even the boys at school when she shows them
her little party trick, smirking devilishly to herself
as she shrugs her shoulders. Maybe she will join
a circus, bright face paint sweltering
in the sticky lemon spotlight.
bodies and their parts, a sequence
