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,
Ready to feel the sun.