In yoga class, surrounded by three walls of mirrors
I cannot avoid seeing my hips
49-year-old bulging handles
their wideness sinks at the wrong spot.
The truth about my hips: I find them
sturdy looking, square front on
but sideways they spread like sponges, abundant
woman fat, spread thickly like butter on sliced bread
or a baguette bulging in the oven.
Bone on bone cracks,
when I raise my legs, lying flat.
Soak those achy, creaky, un-oiled hinges
in salt foam waves,
And let my rose hips rise
like Aphrodite out of the sea.