This Body of Mine by Angela Allyn

This body of mine is not the body I really wanted.
This skinshell is not the stuff of dreams
But it does the job.
Three other people have lived here
A House they were renting
While their own place was built
And we are still having
“Ownership Issues.”
Squatters forget they don’t own the place.

This body never got to be the body I envisioned—
Always more than I liked and less than I wanted
It would have been good to have been 5’8 with smaller breasts
That wouldn’t bounce then sag when I ran.
And the great bowl of my pelvis assured I would never have
A boyish dancer’s body.

But in the end, the shell moves forward
Attempting to overcome any functional flaws.
The lack of a deep plié, a dearth of turn-out,
Completely pitiful extensions, and too long of a waist to grace a leotard—
How I manage to have a decade-long career as a professional dancer
With this jalopy of a carcass is a bloody miracle.

So I point my wagon down the long road of aging
Where the parts begin to fail.
My scars are chapter headings as questionable pieces are removed
For further study.
So far, none of my cellular improvisations has proved dangerous,
But it does put you on the lookout for unruly growth.

And I watch time passing in my structure
In my skin.