On Body Image and Other Poems
by Courtney Moody
ON BODY IMAGE
I am the owner of this body:
I pinch and pull and try
to fold my waist like origami;
I attack my balloon thighs
with needles and sticks;
I swing a hammer to break
a ribcage the size of Goliath’s;
I stack extra skin into towers
like spare pennies in a purse.
This body is an asteroid deserted by gravity,
crumbling at my own vandal hands.
God made me captain of this vessel.
We can’t argue with Beethoven over the ninth
or argue with Monet over oil paints and lilies.
—so we can’t argue with God over flesh.
He says this body is a statue carved by sword.
It’s a pas de deux of oxygen and stardust.
SOMEDAY, YOU’LL RELEARN YOUR NATIVE TONGUE
Children are born to speak in poems. Life reads their verse: each rhyme-laugh and smile-
synecdoche and tear-pantoum before spilling her coffee down their unscented pages, drops them
in the bathtub and folds their corners with a crinkle. The paper tears and the words blend like a
Disneyland crowd, but maybe we can find the tape, still learn to speak in sonnets and similes and
love another in limericks.
HOLY LAUNDRY
You replaced my clothes
that were dyed in dirt
and smelled like onions
with shirts and shorts
woven with dandelion
fluff and scented with
white roses. They’ve
withstood each wash,
ever-white, but now
they create claustrophobia.
The shirts are too cropped,
Short buttons carve
indentations on my skin.
Can I ask You again
for a new wardrobe?
My spirit has grown
larger than the landmark
of Babel, and I long
to soar over it like a
rocket bound for
the world of Your arms.
Isn’t meeting the Heir
of the Stars eye-to-eye
worth something new?
Size me up. Measure
me, so I can walk
in Your hand-me-down
feet and hands.