I Step Into the Dressing Room with Walt Whitman
My last pair of jeans
Gave up the ghost three months ago.
Summer, with its dresses and flowy tops and stretch pants
Allowed me to put off the inevitable
Quite comfortably.
But now that fall is here
My bones cry for the warmth of denim.
I brave the awkwardness of retail,
Browse the shelves and descriptors
Until, armed with hope and a stack of pants,
I step into the dressing room.
Suddenly a woman who was full
Of life and days and love and dreams
Is reduced to the sum of her inches.
The mirror
Reminds me again I am both too much and not enough.
I step out of the dressing room
And pay for my pants,
Flat and empty, neatly folded on the counter.
I think about my busy day
My full week, my full life
The bellies I’ve fed,
The arms that have wrapped around me
Eyes that have laughed into mine
Hearts that have ached along with mine
Sunshine that has warmed my skin
Songs that have rolled with gladness out of my throat
Books I have read
Conversations that flowed past midnight
Rooms I have cleaned and danced and slept in
Planets and suns I have seen with my naked eyes
Oceans crashing against rocks that have held the press of my feet
Prayers I have whispered to the God who made it all, carries it all,
--
Only He can carry me all
The mirror cannot contain my multitudes
It cannot capture a glimpse of me
It is not three or even two dimensional, but barely one -
I carry my pants
Out into their new world
And they rejoice.
