These Thighs

for Diane di Prima

When I was younger my mother

prepared us for the swimming pool.

Her warm hand, it cupped, reassuringly, 

all the way from shoulder 

down my arm to the elbow 

her eyes honest as she said, 

“These thighs, 

there are only two types of thighs  

those that always touch 

and those that never will. 

Be proud of your legs, 

they are strong.”

And a teenage me with a soft belly, 

hurting for its lack of self-confidence,

would try to ignore 

those thighs above those knees 

and those feet on the floor.

The boys, all they noticed – those jugs

a nickname, a testosterone game.

It was these thighs 

that walked me away

to my confident place – to save face.

These thighs,

At the University, Charlottesville, 

on the Lawn, no pants on

Thomas Jefferson, legacies, 

run like the spring night breeze!

These toned, shaved, and daring thighs carried me, streaking, 

past thrilled frat boy eyes.

It was a win, no pressure, 

not so much, to be thin, 

with thighs that don’t touch.

These thighs,

On a boat, deck serene, 

off the coast of São Paulo,

Brazilians, their thighs – realized, 

lives of luxury, waxed and tanned 

all the way up to round beauties 

of butt cheeks both polished 

and perfect – lording over legs 

and proclaiming “she IS a queen!”

I rolled up the corners of my modesty, 

hoping my thighs might say the same.

These thighs,

Closest confidantes of that 

mythical cave of creation.

The gifting of body from mother to child remains something savage

a total submission to the needs 

of this instant.

These thighs,

Oh they’ve walked the world 

and whispered to each other 

through pains now forgotten. 

How fortunate in their fondness.

Now I, like my mother, 

share the wisdom – 

none other than 

the knowledge 

of two types of thighs.