It's been a while since I posted a new poem.
This piece is was written specifically for the Improbable Places Poetry Tour, held at a local laundromat. Still a work in progress. It's also a birthday poem, so it seems appropriate to post it now.
Alone in the basement,
I take off my pajama bottoms
and slide warm denim
from the dryer over my thighs.
They unfurl like a blue flag
tighter than I remember,
hanging lower and snugger
around my hips than before.
This is how 42 feels: authentic,
comfortable, dangerously curvy,
a little distressed along the pockets.
I run my hands over the weft and weave
smooth the creases over the inseam,
that junction between the invisible and visible
at the intersection of the crotch.
The long cursive of my legs
is my signature. Blessed be
the soap and hard water
that makes it all come clean.
Like fallen halos,
white rings of snow salt
once around my cuffs
tumbled away in turbulence,
my past sins absolved.
Everything smells April fresh,
of mountain breezes and waterfalls.
My body retrofits to these grooves and furrows,
and the selvage that never fades.