I stare at the pale curvatures
of my waist in the mirror,
parallel only if I was split
head to labia majora and minora
and folded half over half.
I realized one day that yes,
I do have hips—little shelves
on which to store the heels
of my two wrists.
A soft stomach
between those two lines is traced
against a background of faint lavender.
I stare hard with brief interest.
I’m not sure if I want a super hard abdomen,
muscles as tight as their atoms
(molecules in a leaf)
or if I am content.
Or ambivalent about my discontent,
because really, this body isn’t bad.
And I risk sentimental,
but I am strong no matter
my shape. An energetic tea kettle
celebrating its steam,
yet also delightfully frosty in the winters,
sitting besides the kitchen window
where plants hunker outside
for their weathering.