Curled fingers as the sky
goes down; the time it takes
for the room to go black
is as constant as the beats
between bellied breaths.
Expanding into
what they call potential
form takes charge of her
until she is but shape.
The vastness of her legs and stomach
belong to a higher power.
She is not owner, but vessel of
figure; supplying their demand.
Shame blossoms with
an inward gaze. Who does she blame
when the enemy is the body
that walks her towards war?
When the body's changed
so many hands,
and if the eyes were hands,
even more still.
How to celebrate the fruit
of a labor we were drafted to do?
The skin's gone soft and
the core's gone cold,
but if you can put
one foot in front of the other
they'll still call you
ready for the picking.