Cultivation

and with my brush i cultivate.

i groom her with the bristles that poke with the reminder that i am not dainty.

the thickness of her falls heavy on my head and spreads to my skin,

i wax and i shave and i pluck and i thread.

and the dinner plate is turning into a battleground.

i am eating myself,

insecurity holding the knife like i am a fish.

i am gutted, i let myself be.

and i’ll cover the bumps first in my routine,

foundation, mascara, lipstick, eyeliner.

when the bumps are covered i will be able to digest myself for longer,

i hope i am palatable.

and mother asks me, ‘why care what others think?’

her insecurity has been put down like an old dog.

in the shower she will sing while cleaning the life that has kissed her flesh.

she will kiss it back.

and i’ll watch her twirl,

she’s dancing with her thickness and her sway is infectious.

the wind catches her sing-song,

i ask her,

‘where can i find this love?’

she laughs,

a glorious giggle found in the marrow of our bones,

‘in the mirror,’ she says looking at me,

‘in my eyes.’