Alabama Poets
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I.
I don’t know new words to say about the body, but I know that my body is new, changed from the bones of my youth-- at 6, my gifted resource teacher would ask have you eaten today? I can see your ribs! At 14, I wished I could reclaim those ribs that stuck out of my shirt, those knobby hips—they would have been so beautiful poking, slightly, over the lip of a low rise jean-- so beautiful, those bones. II. He said, you have a woman’s body but, to me, it wasn’t a compliment. What he meant: this is a body I wish the other girl had. it is natural to compare women’s bodies. it is natural to have one girl and have one other. it is natural to use bodies where hearts should be. this is a body I can hold in my hands and marvel at my own hands, their facility. this is a body that affirms my own manhood. He did not deserve my body. I did not give him my body. III. He said a part of me was universal. That part, I’ll leave for you to guess. He said that part was big enough for the Black men and small enough for the White. I wondered what that part could do to a man. I wondered if I really had that kind of power. IV. There was never any room for you in these jeans. There will never be any room for you in these jeans. Sometimes, there’s barely room for me. V. I don’t know new words to say about the body, but I know my body is new, changed from the bones of my youth-- I look in the mirror and wonder how I earned these curves, look, these are the breasts of my dreams—why did I ever dream of breasts? What does it mean to see my own body and think, now you’re finished. Now you’re real. What of those years in a 32 cup? What of A, of B? So strange, this alphabet-- tells us who we are and makes us spell it out, letter by letter. VI. Twice in my life, I’ve stopped eating. At first, because I didn’t have the time. Stress ate me alive. Then, the thin wrists and flat stomach looked good. Then, I had to impress his parents. I had to fit in the palm of his hand. Then, I had to smile and make straight A’s and volunteer this way and that way, then, I was just discovering my body, but preferred it empty. VII. When I was young, I always drew all women with cleavage, with little waists and bow legs. How many little girls across this planet see a paper doll-body and wish on every star, wish to the man in the moon, wish to God and to the editors of Cosmopolitan—just let me be pretty, let my body fill out but, Lord, not too much. Lord, give me curves but give me the right ones. Lord, make me worthy of worship, make me beautiful. VIII. How many calories can I burn worrying over my waistline? IX. My first prom and I felt too fat to dance. My first prom, tenth grade, no date but my sister-- the boy I loved with his pretty girl, his look-how-he-can-sling-her-hold-her-pick-her-up-- my stomach, bulging in the sequined dress I’d been so proud to buy, the dress whose skin held tightly to my belly, reminded me that this was my load to bear. X. On the street, I brace myself for the eyes. Men in their cars on their bikes on their own two feet watch me. Some shout. Pretty lady, pretty girl, they say. They deem me worthy of this bastardized praise. Is this worthiness enough? 
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