|Original Photo by Agnes Fohn Photography, (C) 2014|
Written while staring down 31, then realizing you need a step ladder to look it in the eye.
APPROACHING 31 ON STUBS
My legs haven't grown.
They say third time's a charm,
but three decades have passed
and they remain abridged.
Apparently I was not destined to be a torso,
set upon giraffe gams,
or to grow into a lithe antelope woman
made of sloping lines toe-walking in knife-sharp heels.
I'm okay with it.
At least it's time to be.
We still need pixies.
We still need
someone to wear the scraps
cut off other jeans made
for longer bodies.
We need the travel-size army keeping the hemming industry
The invaluable insight into urgent matters like
the nuances of the undersides of chins,
or the perks of speaking to navels,
can only be obtained by miniatures looking up.
when slithering into
worn-in mens t-shirts,
borrowed for spooning or sleep,
my always wish,
will be for a ballerina's base:
Two long extensions,
to wrap around your waist
like climbing ivy.
(C) Kimberly Kaye 2014