by Lindsay Brown
Two chubby white feet stand in front of the mirror. Happiest in hi-tops, they can stand the odd stiletto. They have walked her all over the world. They are her transport. Two pale legs, unshaven and bruised like a little boy’s have danced in nightclubs, at weddings and parties, with friends and with joy. They’ve run along beaches and away from trouble. They take her everywhere she needs to go. They are her independence. Hips, hippopotamus heavy to some, hip-hop hypnotic to others sit symmetrical in her middle. She thinks that sometimes, your body parts are to be shared. She thinks of his hands grasping those hips, and considers the baby that could grow, sheltered there. They are a haven. One soft belly, round with memories of rich dinners, and her richer dining companions. It is her sustenance. Two breasts, free from the binding of her bra bob gently as she moves. They are useless to her, but like her hips, are best shared. Two arms, unevenly coloured and hopeless on monkey bars have comforted her grieving family and held onto the things she needs. They carry her bounty and burden. They anchor her small hands. Stubby-fingered, they have made her house a home. They touch, lingering on lovers’ chests and new dresses. They make her breakfast. They apply her eyeliner. They hold her pen. They are her creativity.