There is mine : a rounded shape
with the usual girl parts. Then there is his – angles and curves–
to fit mine, challenge nerves which had numbed.
A body is as much noun as concept,
referential. To tell anything of my own
I reach for his, pull him
to the page, a disguise
because my skin is itchy as wool. People know me
with my mother or my father, I am both sides of the family,
their echo. I consider action
verbs for my limbs but there are too many to choose
so I focus on limitations. How wrong
when the knee bends backwards, or an elbow inverts,
pokes through skin, what to make of it ?
That the threshold for breaking
is intuitive for every body. A ballerina
embodies an aria, an ostrich feather waving in a breeze.
I want to know how she holds
her balance in the fury of spins.