Thick Thighs

By Charlotte Koch

My thighs rub together when I walk.

They sing a spiteful symphony,

Brisk whispers as I shuffle down the hall—

Pooling at the cross roads of my body,

Causing flooding for miles around.

Three inches below the apex of my thighs,

The point where layers of fat touch other layers of fat,

Small stretch marks spider out and mark me

Like a target, a small hunted thing.

I feel vulnerable in these places,

Knowing how reprehensible my body is

That I should hide my legs

The swish, swish of my thunder thighs

Rolling across one another

Like waves on a bitter blue sea.

And I am bitter for my twins—

Strong enough to carry me, thick enough

To make me run,

To push me to my feet,

To shake my ass when I feel the beat,

To keep me from falling.

The trunks of my tree dig into the Earth

And keep me breathing.

Why should I mock their diligence?
Break off their twigs, sand down the rough edges

Of their pale landscape, the bark smoothed to

A deathly sheen, shaved down so far to resemble

Mere toothpicks, pointed and skeletal.

I had hoped for a little gap

That light could shine through.

I suppose I will continue to hear the roll of thunder,

Grateful for the support at my base

That keeps my spine straight,

My head held tall.

Tall enough to see a future where

My thickness does not define me.

Where thunder will prophesize rain,

Enough to wash away the dirt

And reveal a body that is dew-covered,

Brand new,

Ready to feel the sun.