I wonder if I could start slowly
And assess my value one bit at a time.
I wonder while I watch the bubbles circle my toes,
Spinning around my feet on their way to the drain behind my heels.
I see that I hate my ankles,
Weak like my mother’s,
Brown like my father’s.
I detest my legs;
Long with wrecked knees,
And thighs like mud, holding in sticky secrets.
Sometimes my hands have pretty fingers;
Well-lotioned and soft.
But mostly they are thick and clumsy,
Not often held.
I investigate my breasts,
Which conjure images of my aunts and grandmothers
As well as eleven year old fear and annoyance.
There can be moments of quiet,
When I look in the mirror without turning away,
Examining my eyes.
Coffee eyes. Chocolate eyes. Night eyes.
My grandmother told me that I have old eyes,
Full of knowing and mischief;
Interest and concern;
And a thousand yeavs of light.
I speak with my eyes, my value, my life.
This piece originally appeared in Issue 1 of Left Jab Poetry Magazine, published in December 1996.