I Step Into The Dressing Room with Walt Whitman

 

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.