Holding the flesh of my thigh, known to the patriarchal world as cellulite
Get a tummy tuck, get fat reducer, diet.
A woman, learned to hate that flesh
The chunky, gooey, top of the stomach, called muffin tops.
That curvy Renaissance woman, naked across the couch
Only a woman can love the white, silk, soft flesh.
No muscles, or workout, or gyms or hundred mile races
Just her gelatin flesh, her body, the matter of body, the woman
The earth. Woman is the body
Women stopped loving themselves, too soft and cushy to fall into
Like pillows or clouds, but the strength in that hanging flesh
Is my grandmother’s iron hand and tough survival.
Loving the woman who eats Crisco and dives into the ocean off of cliffs
The light of the moon shines on her full buttocks.
Women who inject silicone to get that buttocks curve like a hill
Flat tummies, six pack, ripples across the gut, a man’s body
Only a woman can love a woman in the way a woman loves
I am only first beginning to love as a woman can love myself
I was beaten to be stiff, silent and pretty, a hard pretty, that had no lose ends or fuzzy
Ends curled, only neat and clean
A woman as a wolf, peeing, her legs open and sniffing the leaves, in the dirt
That is how a woman loves herself.
This is such a powerful writing.
I saw the Jenny Saville exhibit over the weekend and her art embracing the woman’s body is so aligned with this incredible writing.