Sunday, July 6, 2014

Approaching 31 on Stubs (a Short Girl Birthday Poem)

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.


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,
and head,
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.
(Also children.)
Still, sometimes,
when slithering into
worn-in mens t-shirts,
borrowed for spooning or sleep,
my wish,
my always wish,
will be for a ballerina's base:
Two long extensions,
sinews taught
to wrap around your waist
like climbing ivy.

(C) Kimberly Kaye 2014


  1. gone and back the same? anyhow, your words lengthen thought/imagination; that matters.

  2. This poem kills me (not shocking. Your poems usually kill me). I've considered writing a response: Approaching 31 on Stilts (a tall girl poem). If I do, I will post here only for your entertainment, and not at all in the hopes that I'll produce something as charming.
    thanks for writing again.