My Body, Diverted as Water by Stones
A teacher in middle school tape-measured
the expanse from hem to knee, then sent
me home for a skirt that wouldn’t trouble
him with the scandal of my legs.
Boys and men cajoled or covertly
compelled it, go with the flow.
My babies grasped and sucked and bit; toddlers
barnacled themselves around my neck, sticky
hands in my hair, peed in my lap, lounged
on me as if I were a pillow or a couch.
For decades, strangers on the street
(pro)claimed it, in rude suggestions to
and for its sundry parts, in graspings
from behind, clutches, squeezes,
humps—but nothing to complain of, nothing
every single woman hasn’t suffered.
More than once I’ve wondered what
is a body, that I dare name it me or mine.
We know it can be broken
down to less-than-dust: mostly carbon,
H2O, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus.
Or is body a mere shell or husk for soul,
a rented boat (we call it she, as in she’s
an old tub, but has fine lines), or
borrowed coat, stretched and worn,
lining frayed, but still of use, still warm?
As I age, there are few who attempt
to steal the skiff for an unsanctioned spin.
Now parts are claimed by doctors—
right shoulder, eyes, left hip.
Still, my husband’s leg claims mine
in bed, as, to be fair, mine does his.
I catalogue the current list: hopeful
breasts, rounded belly, and full hips,
ballast against future wasting. Legs
that bear me. Eyes, ever searching
far-off ships. Inside, the mind, which goes
about its course of laughter, care, love,
and subtle decline. Decide there’s more—
my portion that’s saltwater
makes me kin to oceans. Tidal,
I tell myself. A force.
Marjorie Tesser (she/her) writes poetry and fiction. Recent work has appeared in Molecule, SWWIM, The Marbled Sigh, Landline Literary, and others. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, The Magic Feather (FLP) and THE IMPORTANT THING IS (Firewheel Chapbook Award Winner), and is the editor of MER – Mom Egg Review, a literary magazine on mothers and motherhood.
The Marbled Sigh 