Pink lips
Round Hips
that curve tightly around my body
like a winding mountain road
Flesh that
Hugs me
snugly

Rosebud nipples
smiling dimples
an unbruised apple bottom
fit to bite
with just enough juice to run down your greedy mouth
and my stomach tight

flat, no fat
Wiggle, not jiggle
Breasts full Eyes dull No sleep Still sweet
Like fruit that has taken its first breaths of ripeness

I have been allowed to grow and swell
but my body should not tell that tale
The story of a vessel ruined by the act of creation
No
I am still an unfired kiln
I can be made warm, hot, scalding
I am not pottery broken from the inside out

And is that what I’m supposed to be?
When I have grown too large for my body
When My spirit has crossed over and back again with another soul under its wing
and we both nested in this flesh
Am I still supposed to be small?

I don’t know how.

My lips are red and dripping love for this new soul
My hips are round like a harbor
I am the port from which she’ll launch
My kneaded focaccia flesh makes the bread for her table
I have swelled
I have proofed
I have risen

Faucet nipples pour the elixir of life
and I have many dimples now
My bottom
My Thighs
the tenders of my arms
are no longer chiseled into the bedrock of my bones
My flesh hangs where it was her hammock

And I still taste sweet
Like Arizona honey
and a ripe peach
I just also want to taste like permission to be
Freedom to ripen, to split open
to pour my pit into the earth where new life springs

I want to hear the sound of applause
when my thighs slap together
And feel the sun’s approval shining on my naked, imperfect stomach
I want to feel the gratitude of creation for dancing to her tune
For joining in the chorus
For being her instrument
I want you to scream ‘encore!’ as I take a bow
I have composed a symphony of life
Chords of flesh and notes of bone
With just these humble hands

Praise me
and tell me this is exactly what
I am supposed to be.