Poetry Challenge: I’m Reaching

Petite feet, with Schwarzenegger toes,

trying since birth to reach me

to heaven,

or something just as peaceful

and lazy.

Calves the size of

baby cows

from lugging bail

upon bail to the barn ceiling.

Stubble splits beads of sweat

raining down from tattered,

cropped denim;

cool, but not skanky.

Butt and belly just

too plump for comfort

and boobs wishing they would share;

but butts are greedy

and bellies are jelly

and so they sit, sulk, and slump,

while abs prep for the slaughter.

Bies and tries sharpen their knives

to trim the flab that flaps

from my pathetic wings,

shaking against the planet’s pull

to stretch me that much higher

to the judgmental doom

that they say awaits us all.

Tilted up, between baby-fat pits

and midget digits,

the potential energy of 17

Big Bangs

meditates on the face

of the hand that may someday

pull me up,

and what music will play as I become the skies…

 

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