"quadriceps" poems
Before last night, I'd only seen the forbidden-fruit curves and
ripples
rendering my skin unbeautiful.
But in the fluorescent indifference of a drugstore
I caught sight of my legs through eyes not my own,
new tapers and bulges swathed in black spandex
even too flimsy for the $15 price tag,
and wondered why words like "small" and "gap"
were heaven to my ears,
while "quadriceps" and "endurance"
have their own quaint ring,
a lovely taste on the tip of a tongue
which has spent too much time
wallowing in self-hatred.
Strength isn't a virtue in women,
we who learn from birth to take up
as little space as possible.
Our shapes always need shaping,
guiding,
sometimes our own voices telling ourselves
we deserve the pain of fatigue
after one mile too long spent running
up the avenue,
forcing ourselves to faint
for a glimpse of thinner thighs,
we deserve to be dehumanized
if we don't inch our way into
the body laid out for us by
Mother Society.
Where is the place for the girl who
hobbles home, skin bruised purple
but flushed with the accomplishment of stopping
every single shot in practice?
Or for the boy whose gentle hands provide
the perfect perch for a butterfly to land upon?
My strength is not an imperfection.
There is beauty in it, and discipline.
These legs can take me for miles if I
take off the iron vest that keeps me
anchored to a Hollywood version
of myself.
Without it, I can fly.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Scanning from the ground upward over my torso
Reveals an disturbing inventory of dysfunction
brachymetatarsia, in both feet!
Unequal leg length
Reconditioned knees
Atrophied right quadriceps
Hernia Scar
L4 & L5 Vertebrae way too chummy
Are these *******
Are these jowls?
Gum recession
Moderate gastro intestinal reflux
Three diopter challenge in both eyes
Dermatochelassis, left and right
Scintillating scotoma
Male pattern baldness – rear solar panel developing.
And yet when asked
I reply, Oh, I’m fine! I’m fine.
And you, and you, still love me.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
It was the eve of a black obsidian night
full purple moon and stars shone bright
the howl of one lone wolf filled frigid air
damp cold mist needed down outerwear.
The screaming banchee's breath vapor
was noxious green befitting the caper
of scaring all children by his loud noise
of trick or treating little girls and boys.
A massive link ink wrought iron fence
surrounds eerie mansion in suspense
Frankinstein pushes thru spider webs
while a monster exercises quadriceps.
A ghost wanders in Cemetery's grave
and a pumpkin avoided an autoclave
the doors began to creak very loudly
a Raven and Owl sang quite proudly
Slick sleek ebony crows sit atop a roof
while another swoops, soars like a goof
do listen, you can hear their shrill echo
tombstone-songs by mummy's gecko
© Carmela M. Patterson
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
For instance,
I could just stop
right now,
and dress like a thief,
or take everything
and
drape myself
in mauve robes.
Sing your praises,
wish me a good demise,
empty those heavy bags
full of treasure
and drench the world
in silence.
Oh, I could see it now,
if I tried,
I could see it now,
if I tried.
The velvet quadriceps
and thighs,
the spindly fingers
and their amber warmth,
the tiny crimson tongue,
and it's legs striding across my chest
in conquest.
But then,
I am not stupid.
I am an instance;
a t-shirt flapping
on the clothesline
with all its infant sounds.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
How ephemeral the memories now seem.
As if they truly come from a world altogether unfamiliar…
Tis but a dream
The early mornings spent on ice,
The blinding lights and gorgeous whites,
Thirsty lungs,
Tired quadriceps,
And of course bruised knees.
And all of them filled to bursting with the emphatic movements,
Gestures,
Leaps,
And lifts,
Of the bladed ballerinas
That dance across my fading dreamscapes…
The ice-dancer glides effortlessly,
But with purpose austere.
Every muscle contracted in the manner most conducive
To manifesting their artistic desire.
From fingertips
To toe-picks
Their body transfigured into an instrument of emotion —
A weapon of beauty.
From start to end each routine is a metamorphosis:
Budding and blooming along a euphonious plane
Until the artist’s full potential is revealed…
The energy released —
The raw power,
Of the jumps and spins,
Kaleidoscopic fireworks
Clashing
Against the roaring white backdrop:
Each explosion
The ignition of a chambered round;
The spiralling bullet,
The impact on target…
The artist’s winter warfare actualized.
Last night,
As such ballerinas …riveting …terrifying
Danced around the panorama of my mind’s eye
I recalled that ultimate unison between flesh and spirit;
That of the figure skater
Painting their art
On a canvas most cruel.
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 9:05 PM UTC
I love rain. I love the rain of my heart when it feels like
it's only going down, down, down; I love the rain
in the back of my throat that causes a fog in my eyes;
I love the rain in my chest that slows down and muddies up
my heartbeats; I love the rain of my fingers when they ache
from the moisture in the air; I love the rain of my eyelids
when they ease closed after a long day; I love the rain
around my feet that makes them cold; I love the rain
in my ankles that refreshes my step; I love the rain
of my quadriceps that seems to clog up my own will;
I love the rain in my elbows, sitting on them and looking
at the deepest friend of a friend I will ever have; I love the rain
in the bridge of my nose that reminds me to hold my head high;
I love the rain as it washes through my hair and chills,
warming my shoulders; I love the rain on my shoulders themselves
as they push and shove through it in order to wrap around
someone too small and cold; I love the rain around my hips
that are hiding, to be protected and concealed; I love the rain
in my brain as I forget what the sun looked like; I love the rain
in my bones that feel very deeply what the sun looked like;
I love the rain in my soul that knows that when the leaves rot and
the wood decays, that smell only means summer.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
I may not have the most perfect physique,
but as I sit here,
having a beer and becoming aware of myself,
I realize that it is all that I need.
My neck, though it grows stiff on occasion,
is the perfect slope for the face of a lover.
My spine is long and narrow,
but crunched into itself
from years of compacting.
I want to reach inside my skin and set it free.
My shoulders are sloped, but sturdy,
and carry the weight of a thousand worlds.
One of my biceps is bigger than the other,
but that's okay,
its a natural phenomenon
and when I flex my right arm
it makes me feel strong, and powerful.
Capable.
I may not be thin enough
for you to count each tiny, delicate rib, but
I have a strong abdomen
and can do many sit-ups
or pull myself out from under you,
sit up suddenly to kiss you,
and anchor myself to the earth, yes -
My hips aren't as narrow as I'd like them to be,
but my quadriceps are strong and sinuous
My reflexes, feline
and my calves pure muscle,
I know
because ever since I turned thirteen,
I have been staring at them
after soccer practice in my cleats and shinguards
at the pool as the water drips off my legs and catches in the hairs
I've worked so hard to groom
in the morning as I stretch and caress their skin-
My feet
wiggle their toes into the moist, warm earth and keep me firm
and my eyes
pry into you,
always seeking
for things unknown
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC