The Wild Women by Lauren Brooke Sanchez
Our bodies are poetry. The soft flesh on our bellies Are like overripe fruit A doorway to what lies beneath, The Wild Self. Our curves and lines evolve as wisdom collects.
Our shapes transform To tell the story of our soul, The scars we hold. Embracing the constant shift Of the weight we gain, The heaviness we shed. There is no burden in These good birthing hips, These folded knees Look like swelling lips --------- after too many kisses. And these breasts that wilt, Like aging Calla Lilies. Limbs that soften, Dimpled and unbound. Double chins Assembled from sorrow and laughter. Sacred wombs with its secrets Of suffering and bliss.
No shame for our full figure Or slim figure, The bruised figure, Or colored figure. Eradicate desire to look like bones we cannot feel, Or societies we will never be, Or people we can never please.
Adorned by sky and water, We dance under the moon. And receive from the sun Forehead kisses mid-afternoon. Sitting vibrantly deep in our wildest self, In our original design Where love pours from frayed fingertips Beauty overflows from these dry, cracked lips. We are the Wild Women.