Florence Said, a poem

i
I used to be a size six
all elbows and stringy hair and angles.
How those angles hurt
lurking at every bend.

I would thrust my leg out, my foot so far way- detached-
My mother used to tell how some doctor said her feet were so big they were
just another bend in her leg.

I remember that time in Brighams in Porter Square
(do they still have Brighams in Porter Square?)
warmer weather, must have been summer,
I was visiting from boarding school:
(can you visit from boarding school?)
we met in Brighams
neutral territory
all shiny formica and florescent lights humming and the smell of milky dishrags
left in a vanishing trail on the counter.
Her leg, long, thrust out in fromt of her, her foot, sprouting festering blisters
How far had she walked in those coarse sandals that cut into her feet,
a martyr
like Jesus
offering

“nice shoes,” I said
“you want them?” she said, “I can get more.”

ii
I used to be a size six.

Florence said, “I carry a lifetime of grief in my belly.”
That always stayed with me
justification for my big belly
for my grief
a vessel for it
a council

When did it become toxic
a target for media venom
an emblem of self hatred

I carry a lifetime of grief in my belly
round and soft
mapped by the births of my children
able to expand and contract and embrace several lives
I carry several lifetimes of grief in my belly

Cistern brimming with abundant life
expand to refill, contract to rebirth
advise and counsel in every breath

I used to be a size six
I carry a lifetime of grief in my belly