This poem was written for the latest mini-challenge from Read Write Poem — write seven poems about the body in the context of October. A conversation that happened while I was shopping for my wedding gown a couple of weekends ago prompted this poem. Enjoy.

P.S. If you want to read everything else I wrote for the mini-challenge, click here.

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I am not blessed with curves that might
invite skiers to slalom off my waist and then
fly through the air as
skis disconnect from ground and then
sail off the curves of my hips. Do not let
the dark skin fool you – I have no junk in my trunk
to speak of. No, I am
a German body, stout and round, with
a dark face that wears
kinks disguised as black corn silk painted with Irish red for hair and
Cherokee sitting high on cheekbone thrones
beneath ex-slave eyes with
North Carolina written in them. And my shoulders span
from New Jersey to California: I hear
quiet ocean fizz and pounding surf
in both ears nightly.

The saleslady at the bridal salon says
that I am built like a column. Maybe in a past life,
my stone chunk shoulders held up the Parthenon
while I peered into the naos, staring at Athena’s face
through a square doorway cut out of the belly of stone. Or perhaps
I stood naked with my straight, ridged back to the stage in
some valley ampitheatre, watching actors pass by me
as they approach to recreate their myths. I wonder about
the wine-soaked, raucous crowds and all of the bad acting
that I never saw. Or maybe

I stood sentinel as part
of a pale, bleached crowd, with my back to
smooth stone and arches. Felt fresh blood
flung onto my back, heard its cold sting
echo upon my skin, wondered at the shedders
imitating Zen painters with their abandon and mocking
the satorical with their cruelty. Heard
bones break apart, heard
Christians sing their last hymns before
falling beneath the shadows of teeth – but I would have never seen
the massacres. Facing the roads,
I would have peered out at:
slaves, traders, senators,
decorated trophies written in breasts and curled, jeweled hair,
crimson robed centurions with combs of feathers atop their helmet crowns,
the occasional poet,
and the passels of golden-haired whores. I would have seen them
with silent eyes in stone
as they passed by my feet. Now,

I don’t know if I ever wore curled hair carved
in white curves and scrolls or
ever held up anything ancient or sacred. But
I do know this: while everyone stares at the hourglasses
and follows perfect concave lines that speak
36-24-36 or
watches the divided pendulum bottom of a girl tick away
the seconds as she walks the walk of swish, I will be
too busy holding up the sky
with my shoulders.

Written 10/12/09
© 2009 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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