Hot

I was hot once.

Second glances followed

me home

like puppies smelling

steak and cuddles.

Ripe melons perched

under my collar bone,

hips swaying like

a porch swing

under a willow tree.

Seriously.

I was hot.

I didn't meet stretch marks

until my 10-pound bundles

of joy

introduced us.

Then twins arrived

to strike the final deal,

signing my middle with

a flourish,

matching it to

a roadmap of Texas.

My husband ran

his hand across

my wrinkled stomach.

"You're hot"

he said.

He loves the lines

dancing over me.

To him

they tell the story

of us.