MY BODY MY HOME
(tw: mention of rape)
Self love thy name is bathtub naps at 6 am to break the fever
thy name is shaving my legs for nobody but my own hands
thy name is depending on my mothering of myself
thy name is a load of laundry every 8 hours
if that’s what you need, dear
the fever did break,
my wet hair fans over my shoulders.
At night I steel myself
leave the big blanket spread beside my bed
in case I have to curl up like a dog on the floor again, this happens
and I still love you.
from the couch to bed to couch to floor
I bring my parade of accoutrements
thermometer, blankets, water, rattling orange bottles, two changes of clothes
the clean laundry smells like ammonia and vinegar in the washer
I know this is
just the way my mouth tastes, now.
it is easier to count the things lost this year
but today I stop on
the mess of my coffee table
and I am so joyous for it
for the little piles of life lived all around our narrow apartment
the half-finished homework, the half-eaten cliff bar
the bag of junk cleaned out of the car, the kitchen table of
clean clothes, folded by my friend and his wife after
they gave my girl a bath when I had to work late
I paid them in mushrooms and kisses on their cheeks
left them a bag beside the polaroids and vining plants above the kitchen sink
what a home I have made, despite
what a home I have made in this body
ill as it is
it is my own
though so many have tried
to make
this body what it isn’t
what’s expected
what was assigned
what is for the good of the country
what is for your own good, my dear,
my body,
my body
has taken its lumps
has taken the bruises and rapes and
sour grapes of womanhood
of human-being
of queer self-loathing
of childbirth
of labor and labor and labor for the bourgeoisie
Now I rest my feet, I wrest the aches through my calves
anoint them in oil, drape myself in soft cotton
I celebrate the time I am given
the kindness of my friends
the goodness of my bright and messy home
the wildness of my daughter
the choice to make
my body
my own