what my body was made for

My body was made to move.  Lean child legs painted maps of escape through dense woods; abused toes stood en pointe, calf muscles twitched.  Rolling down hills, chin tucked to chest, limbs askance; breathing hijacked by the rush of falling and the relief of stillness.  The morning stretch; fingers closing around thin air.  The tightening abdominal pull of deep, holy laughter; a savory rhythm invading the hips and demanding the answer of a dance.  A single pirouette reply to a note of music.

My body was made to fuck.  A wealth of hair to trap and pull, raising the heart to the heavens.  Teeth to drag against the pulse in his neck; a voice to beg.  Thighs to receive the streams of two needs, mine and yours.  A smile to break through the dark when love shows up.

My body was made to birth.  Stomach morphing into moon, aching pelvis and sleepy mind.  Breasts filling, lotus blossoming, opening up; the blinding agony of a conjoined universe splitting in two.  The cherry-red tie that binds during those first moments that will never look like any other moment; as unique as flakes of snow.

My body was made to resent being told what it was made for.

It rejects the construct of knee-skimming skirts declaring an antiquated purity.  It protests against labels; it balks at the promise of being made whole only upon finding its soul mate or of reaching nirvana solely through gleaming strings of lovers. It kicks in the teeth the assertion that motherhood defines true womanhood and it rages against the notion that balancing a babe in each arm while milk flows from its breasts contradicts authentic feminism.  My body denounces all intruders, all preachers, and lords.  It banishes those who seek to inspire shame or fear; it snuffs out the flame of self-loathing.

My body accepts only what warms its bones and pulls euphoria from its lungs.   All else is cast out and burned to the ground, feeding the earth with ash.