In the Mirror

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.


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