Body of Work
I had hipbones like knives,
they cut perfectly into yours.
We celebrated our beauty -
our slender waists, entwined hips.
I’ve worn this body decades now,
it brought us a son whose children
carry our blood.
It’s carried me and sustained you
to flooded rice fields and jungle temples.
My body has brought you back from death,
has sat with you as you weaved in and out.
It’s been worn smooth,
like faint lines in sand, soft waves
where sea fingers reach in and in again.
I don’t mourn the loss of angled hips,
taut skin, apple breasts.
It is as it should be:
my life with you writ in dimpled curve,
in sun-etched hand and pillowy chest.