My hips do not swish.
Instead they crutch back and forth
Leaning on drawn out legs.
Oh, for my hips to propel me
Like the Latina girls
With the their long black hair and their big round
Eyes,
Luring the boys leaning against the lockers.
My hips hold no power.
They cannot sing to the salsa music.
My hips cannot even speak.
(I have tried)
Pushing my shoulders back,
Letting my legs lead
Or being pulled
Up from the imaginary string
In my head.
Instead,
It becomes a noose.
The boys do not turn
When I walk by.
Only fourteen, you say.
But still I know
That something of me is missing.
Something magical between my hips, that
Should swish
But do not.
You have captured youth and the exploration of adulthood very well here. I really did have to check to see how old you were becuase the perspective was well done. I enjoyed reading your poem thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this. Well written. Thanks. - Bill
ReplyDeleteI remember the feelings and uncertainties of youth very well and you've portrayed them perfectly here.
ReplyDeletelove it...
ReplyDeletebrilliant wording!