Lines On My Body
I want these lines on my body
showing my journey,
expressing my womanhood -
bold patterns of identity
from a feminine hand.
But there is part of me
that shouts don’t do it!
No man will touch you -
(not this man but maybe the next).
No job will have you -
(not this job but maybe others).
So, perhaps, like that poem about
the old lady wearing green shoes
(or was it purple? or red?)
because she finally felt free
to do so — perhaps, like her, I’ll
finally cover myself in the beautiful
images of my life when I’m sixty;
when I don’t need to care about
the bank manager anymore, or
the boyfriend. Maybe then I can say:
I don’t have a photo album or
a Facebook page — don’t need it.
It’s all on me. Part of me. Come.