it is an art-
to know exactly when to turn a rib
and when to grow out from one
despite the bronzing of skin
like honey glaze which appears
to trickle down from the centuries
that painting; speckled faces
make us all unnaturally beautiful.
hairless, pale-we once felt
our ribs crushed like a mother
elephant's bones still acting
as a foundation for the burden
that rises up and out just above
the flat of our bellies.
heaving and busting out.
it is an art
to balance this juxtaposition
of feminine intimidation--
to be smaller, and yet,
still larger than you.
we rail against it
but still wish to be appealing.
but then the liberation--
to be unappealing--
if all of us,
like our strands of hair,
brought the effortless pulling back of our
collective, feathered mask.
we would be but sunken eyes without shadow
and hairy faces without blades.
Mais, Oui. we are the fairer sex.
out-looked, out-done, out-been,
out of being-have we lost it?
or do we transcend it?
I am Love-handled.
I am not pale
I am not hairless
and still I seduce.
it is an art.
it is a victory of one.
Tickle your toes. . .
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