a poem a day for a year #114

I am starting to get my mother's body
in bits and pieces
my hands are her hands as I drive a car
peel potatoes
point at my children
it's fine
I can handle hands
but her full thighs bother me
because I knew as a young adult that they were bad
because she told me so
she hated her body and she told me so
in all of the ways she tried to fight herself
in all of the frustration
she must have worn me down too
as now I recoil in the mirror
even though I loved her full softness
for a long time
back then
only she kept telling me how bad it was
her giant amazing breasts
like missiles
her creamy skin
her curves
she was the softest hug
the dreamiest one
and I couldn't even hear
when she told me how beautiful I was
I couldn't even hear the good above the bad
and wonder if I would have worn ear plugs
if I would have worn blinders
would I be running around the house now
swaggering around town
like a cat
knowing I looked good
knowing I looked good
loving this big bad body
like you do
when you are free?