[writing] 615243

Well, I'm officially no longer afraid of form poetry. I can't say that I LIKE it, but I know that I can DO it. Doing it well is another story.

Presenting the sestina that I just pulled out of my ass for a poetry class assignment: (it sort of sucks, but it's a first draft and I think that there might just be a real poem in there somewhere. I dunno if I have the patience to work my way through to it in such a restricted form at the moment, although I can see where the fascination with this kind of thing comes from.)

Sestina for Myself

When I was young, I often felt that I was broken,
that there was nothing about me that was worthy of love.
This was a feeling that was centered in my body.
thick and unwieldy I thought it, its measure
and its form grotesque, my feet stupid, my hands
clumsy. I’m sure no woman needs me to repeat

every sin that I imagined and repeated
to my mirror, examining my face until I could have broken
the glass with my bare and desperate hands.
I didn’t think that I would ever be loved.
I wore giant sweatshirts; I weighed and measured
every spoonful of food I put in my body.

But this is no foreign tale I’m sure. Our bodies
are our enemies. We see this truth repeated
every day, and follow its rhythm, tread the measure
of the dance they teach us. I have tried to break
their rigid forms but it is hard. I would love
to look at myself and love each inch. My hands

would like to cup my stomach, to handle
any part of me with gladness, explore what my body
really is. When my husband says he loves
my ass, I doubt his honesty. He could repeat
himself a thousand times and never break
through. He will never measure

my waist with his hands, as Rhett measured
Scarlett. I sometimes twist away from his hands,
and he is silent and confused, unsure which taboo he has broken.
I have so many. I have made of my body
a battleground, and every day I repeat
my losses and victories, retake ground, reclaim my love

for myself. It is unstable and fragile, this love.
Sometimes its life can be measured
in mere moments. Feeling ridiculous, I repeat
to my mirror, I am beautiful. I put my hands
on myself, touch my face, my body.
I tell myself, I am not broken.