self portrait in a yellow sundress
triangle toes:
my smallest toes curve inward
from years of ballet slippers
and curling them under
looking at the ground
trying to talk to you through
the shadows of my eyelashes
virgin and untouched by mascara
and hollows of knees:
show strain in concave soft places
hidden against white wicker chairs
or asphalt when its cool enough to touch
and not get bitten
bent in envy of my kneecaps
wanting to be the sister in the sun
I always knew
they were more beautiful
Achilles tendons:
always took the tension of tapping feet
and put it to use for thin ankles
torn skin by sandals and picnic benches
but not deep enough to fall
you never held me here
and dipped me into the brine
you let my face stay above the ocean instead
cellulite dimples:
are where a boy loved me once
those delicate things once called hips
now more like haunches
thin-skinned and scared
at times
or brave like ruddy tribal boys
only in the summer
pelvic bones:
are shaped like moths
or bones for birthing children
depending on your outlook
and how much so many girls
want these bones to peek through their skin
Ill keep mine as they are,
with the rest of me
made of stained checker table cloths
and skin pigments all the same
femurs:
are the longest bones
long like hand-woven barbed-wire fences
or two westbound trains
stags antlers or umbrellas for two
and twice as likely to break if youre careful
but i'm never so careful
navel:
we were once connected
like a Victorian diver to the boat
and your womb was the Banda archipelago
where I never found the nutmeg
or else it was Bahia Honda
and I was forever
{for 8 months and 17 days}
looking for something Id never find
last rib:
this is what were made of
that hiding rib that nips us in at the waist
like proper cosmopolitan girls
someday Ill meet a man whos missing one for me
like Lamar for Louise
and wonder if he passed down
that thirteenth rib
backbone architecture:
roman aqueducts under paper-mâché
making a replica like a mask
slouching, you count my vertebrae
and tell me to eat more
or sit up straight
like the proper victorians you pretend we are
i place the forks in descending order out from the plate
and wait for him to pull out my chair
we are hypocrites
glove-tipped fingers together
we are women
with white lace
what's the difference?
nipples:
peep through blouses only on occasion
only for a reason
only as a means
oh no,
Im thinking about lipstick or how cold it is in here
but really
Ill tell Ken to buy that plot of land
its really not all swamp
and my words and glances were
much more humid than they seemed
or tasted
distilled with grapes
collar bones:
are frames for cameos
pink cameos with ivory silhouettes
or antlers of stags again carved with more finesse
or a finer chisel enough to frame a face
with so many misgivings
that these clavicles shy away from the neck
and the heirlooms pearls you string around it
jaw line:
draws words from my chin
after they bow at my lower lip
or up further at the cupids bow, I should say
with frown lines and laugh lines
and how its hard to tell the difference after so many expressions
that night walking with him downtown
when the rain lingered on the pavement and the streetlights
and he made me walk under the canvasses
so the rainwater wouldnt drip in my hair
and he kissed me on the new skin just below my ear
those frown lines that day were yours
I learned them soon
and learned from them
widows peak:
the one thing we still share
my hair wont turn grey at the peak and flow outward
from loss of love or loved ones or self
or the day you made my father a widower in spirit
and decided not to love him
but never gave your wedding band back.















Critiques
The image preceding this piece isn't even necessary because the words stand so strong on their own.
Though the poem is mostly all lower-case, I noticed a few inconsitances on the words you did capitalize. In one verse you capitalize "Victorian", but later on keep "victorians" in lower-case. If you are going to capitalize Victorian, you should probable do the same with "roman" as well. You could also change "paper mache" to "paper-mâché" if you were so inclined.
Thanks so much for sharing this piece, it was a pleasure to read. Keep up the superb work!
Great piece that you've got here. My comments are all very minor. I'll give just a tiny bit of technical (opinion) input, and then I'll talk about content.
I'm not a fan of the erratic line formatting. Tastes on this vary greatly, I'm just extremely old fashioned in my choices. I'm not suggesting to change it per se, just bear in mind that occasionally readers are turned off by it. If it wasn't your poem, I wouldn't have stayed.
However! With that said, you've made excellent use of line breaks for pacing. I know you probably still think that they are arbitrary, but I assure you that no line break is ever meaningless. This piece proves to me that you don't really break your lines haphazardly, just intuitively. Great job on that front.
I found myself a little confused with the scattered pronouns. The first person pronoun was expected. The poem has the word 'self' in the title, so that one is expected. The various 'hims' and 'hers' that appear aren't distracting. The antecedent is generally easy to find or to divine. I'm even cool with the inclusive 'we' because it may or may not include me. The one that I had a little bit of trouble was the second person 'you'.
The stale old crusty poetry textbooks say never to use the second person in a poem. I don't agree with that sentiment. I think that there are times it works brilliantly. It can serve to draw your reader in, or to address directly a subject you would never have the ability (or the courage) to say the things in the poem that need to be said to directly. In this case I found myself a bit confused about when you were addressing me, the funky looking fish guy reading the poem, and when you were addressing the unavailable subject. Sometimes it felt like the you was inviting me in, and other times it felt like it was shutting me out and addressing an absent mother. You then seem to address the same mother in the third person. Perhaps I missed something or am simply confused.
Now, that's the hard part. Finding things to fix with a poem this deeply personal and sweet almost feels wrong, so I hope I haven't overstepped. You manage to pull off a personal portrait in a way that is very difficult to do. The body part layout would have entirely flopped if not for your wonderful imagery. Each piece of anatomy you named off was then tied to a larger picture of you, which is exactly what a portrait needs to do. You might have subconsciously linked some of these, or it may have been done intentionally. Look at the first and the third: toes/eyelashes achilles tendon/face. Those relations of the part to the whole are what makes your body part layout work. Well done.
I also enjoy how you don't present a one sided picture of yourself. You've had some beautiful days. You've had some pretty crummy days. People have loved you. People have made you feel unloved. It's very easy to either whitewash a life or to grey wash it. You've walked the line very elegantly with your ballerina toes.
All in all, I'd say this is an excellent piece. I enjoy the vivid imagery and the bitter-sweet emotions you evoke so much that I refuse to let the things I found distracting detract from my enjoyment. I know you probably weren't exactly expecting a response this long, and that it was completely unsolicited, but I hope that it helps in some way.
Nothing but love,
Tyrannosaurus
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