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.

Alone in the Metropolis

Suppose the No. 37 

had decided not to stop

My arm extended, lifted, waiting 

under

jacaranda trees in bloom

Suppose that driver 

fat and sweaty, overworked   for 30 years, 

as long             as life               allowed

had not debated, heatedly 

new prisoners, captivity 

on metal floors in air 

so stagnant, diesel-laden 

that my hair 

turned grey with soot.

Suppose panaderias 

bright inviting 

pastry cream flirtations 

had not winked as 

No. 37 splashed and halted 

in the Buenos Aires bathtub full of traffic.

It would not occur to you 

to buy a gift for someone strange. 

For someone filled 

with so much anger 

that it rolled

up over pants 

and out of yellowed shirt sleeves 

under lip curls 

into hairy nostrils 

that one tray of sweets

3 pesos please

might change his heart to dulce. 

My Age Defiance

“You probably have a snack somewhere in your purse”, he said

                                                                                “because you’re a mom.”

But what I pulled out were kind words and a smile – traded that 

for my dismay and a thunderclap across his face. 

In the bottom of my purse I have a plastic bag: a Ziploc of desires.

It’s filled with Peter Jordan, only the first half of our Argentine romance. 

I tore the paper where he started to spin webs of doubt and kept the sheepskin rugs 

and the violin and some red wine, malbec.

I’ve also got the paystub from the last big job I did not take.

Barcelona keys to apartments where I’d left my black mesh stockings drying on the line.  

The late morning sun shining; bougainvillea covered white-washed walls; 

fresh orange juice pressed and poured into a glass;

a slice of baguette waiting for me to add butter.

Coffee so strong it knocked me off my ass.

Way down in the corner, my crumpled smudged belief in peace and freedom, from 

wiping bottoms and tying laces and remembering and reminding and recording it all. 

A time I used to know, I’d ride my bike, with shiny fenders and a honking horn, 

right through Cheesman Park. Watch gay men flirt in the shadows of white columns; 

park police hand tickets to the owners of dogs who’d dropped the leash.  

I’d park in front of the World Trade Center and snake the lock through chrome spokes

before zooming up twenty seven floors to work. 

Here too, a sharps container, small and round, for instruments I’ve used

to cause pain in sisters – make them question who they are and yes, love me, too.  

I may have hurt my chances for winning that prize; I didn’t post the letter; I didn’t board the bus;

I didn’t practice hard enough or turn in my words on time.  

And here’s a painful heartache that I never felt. 

A crinkled bag of love now. That is where I’ve gone to get your answer 

about those snacks. Used up all my magic to turn those memories 

of who I was before I birthed those babies 

into an open bag of peanut flavored crunch,

and melty salty goodness,

it’s all right here.

I’m a mom now. I carry a purse.

Are you hungry for a life well lived?