Poetry

Difficult to Love My Body
by Ace Boggess
Difficult for me to love my body.
It bends at odd angles,
creaks like wet hinges of a coffin lid opening,

takes up too much space
even as I slim to a line
avoiding contact in doorways.

This is the house in which I live:
over-large, crooked awning above the porch,
windows dusted out of focus,

foundation cracked & shifting
under the heavy earth.
Difficult for me to love my body.

Difficult for others, too.
They want to make use of it,
sentence it to hard labor.

It defies them, leaning toward sloth,
while I say a dozen
Hail Bartlebys in penance.

This is the house in which I live &
others come to visit.
Some leave happy to have seen inside,

run hands over soft pillows &
glossy countertops; most knock &
leave their basket of candies at the door.

I hope they return sooner, realize
it’s as difficult for them to love my body
as for me to love my body,

this lived-in house with its rich history,
memories grand & horrid.
Ghosts, too. Not difficult for them.

Bright, white scars, they love
my body & me inside it
so much that they never plan to leave.