A piece of me once pirouetted in powder blue Lycra and legwarmers and pink satin pointe shoes.
A piece of me once ‘Grooved Tonight’ and ‘Beat It’ and ‘Funkytowned,’
even won a retro Twist contest with a boy long gone.
A piece of me ate pork chops and au gratin potatoes and green peas and soda pop
on Saturday nights in a clean house with dusk light streaming across the table over the butter dish.
A part of me remembers thickening and swelling during the first year of marriage
and plantar fasciitis so painful, I’d have to crawl to the bathroom in the morning.
A part of me knows tears spitting from swollen eyes on the last days of ever after.
A part remembers the year of spinach salads and tiny pizzas made on low carb tortillas.
A part remembers thinking I couldn’t have what I really wanted in life until I fixed my broken parts.
A part remembers thinking there was too much of me, wishing to be smaller.
I’m learning to grow older now, learning the patient approach, to be more kind, to choose a middle way.
I’m learning to eat a cookie when only a cookie will do and that every burger deserves a fucking bun.
I’m finding my way through lost hormones and joint pain and a sleep cycle with a mind of its own.
I’m finding ways to have alone without the lonesome.
I’m finding a way to walk around the lake because part of me craves light, not to be lighter.
Parts of me have scars, parts have puckers. My thighs have no gaps.
And despite all this, I still have places to go without worrying about the girth of my hips.
I have people to serve who don’t give a damn what my skirt size is or that I ate ravioli for breakfast.
The Canna leaf has creases and so does my neck. I don’t keep inventory.
I am more than the pieces, more whole than my parts, more to come.
I am all desire, red hot.
I am all song, top of my lungs down Lexington Avenue.
I am all stretched out and swaying against a cool blue sky
all ready for a storm to blow and to be shelter for the next passerby.
Copyright Cynthia Berg 2017