Mother Hips

I can recall the first sign of my pelvis stretching baby skin, hide of canvas, pulled taunt. Growing hips, like a tadpole sprouting legs, I wobbled and wavered. I ran into doorways, hooked on table edges, I bore the bruises. My hips spoke meekly, girl-turning-woman.

Then I learned to walk. My hips are my mother. She held my hands above my head, hovering behind me as I took my first steps.

She speaks to me in a voice, booming with androgyny. She scares the man in me. She scares him with her sureness of strength.

She soothes me when I fear the extra weight put on. She pets my forehead with cool hands and widens as I push push push, breathe breathe, scream.

My hips are the woman in me. In her cradle she cups an authority, balance.

She holds the emotions that cry in her right hand, and in her other, those that laugh. She knows me better than I could ever.