Bones and guts. Minor glory. Hair, and tongue, and skin.
My body has never been a metaphor a man could work with. There has always been too much of it — even when there wasn’t. It has always been too hard to hold; this living thing — this moving thing — this growing thing:
This woman thing — so soft it drew blood — so warm they called it home. These hips they fumbled like a helm — a young man out to sea at the depths of me — I was more than met the eye. My breasts — the rest — I surpassed their conclusions a couple of times.
This body — God, my body —
this is my body, God, but how you hold me.