As Seen in the Basin
Yesterday
I
was so damn
preoccupied
with the weight
of it…
The way it
pressed against
once taut skin.
The way
crow’s feet
spread
w i d e r
sign-languaged
and announced
that history
had been
authored there.
The way it
rendered my tits
unconcerned
with expected levity.
The way
my skin
grew freckled
with hefty story
behaved like
plucked
but forgotten
fruit.
How it
would bend in,
give in
too eagerly
beneath a lover’s
resigned touch.
How it
refused (or maybe forgot)
to resist
push back
show
some semblance of
girlish will.
Yesterday
I
was so damn
preoccupied
with the weight
of it…
The way I
tried to cover
time’s footprint
with hues of youth…
bright, crimson pencils
and
clove-colored pressed powders
concealing evidence
of laughing, then
living,
loving,
wanting,
losing,
and laughing again.
The way
I
spray painted
grey strands
with blue-black pretense.
But
today
I found myself
an accidental passerby
before a pool of expectant water
settled in a basin
an unexpected mirror
and I
caught her
looking back
so full
of
laughing then,
living,
loving,
wanting,
losing,
and laughing again.
And I
found myself
nodding at her
bowing my head
examining,
tracing
the patterns etched into
the edges of her eyes
smiling
after hearing
(for the first time)
a crow’s staccato caws
warning
I ought to be
grateful
for
my mother’s mother’s mother’s
gifts
skin, tits, lips, smile,
even lines
(parenthesis that holds the eyes steady)
the anchoring
the centering
the becoming
the paperweight
of bloodline
and time
borrowed
or
bestowed.
Copyright © 2021 by Uva Coles
Uva Coles is a professional keynote speaker and writer, and her work has been featured in the Philadelphia Business Journal and The Inquirer, among other publications. She is also a guest columnist for Al Dia News and a recurring bilingual (Spanish/English) television guest commentator and analyst on inclusive issues for Telemundo, and NBC. A native of the Republic of Panama, she is an orgullosa/proud Afro-Latina immigrant who now lives in Delaware with her husband and two sons.
