How lovely it is to be forgiven,
cradled. When I feel like bursting at the seams,
make them elastic.
I want them natural, meltless in the hot breath of the kiln.
I want them draping the shelf of my ass, the spread of my thigh.
I want me in them: I want the give and the swell, I want it all.
I’m the woman. I bloat and shrivel, I wax
and wane with the moon. Give me a wide berth
and positive ease and pockets, give it all.
Three days on, then hang them on the line. I no longer fear
the late-night grocery run, the lazy Sunday, the patched knee:
Wherever I go, there I am.