Thigh Dwellers

Now that I have your attention...some of you responded to this potential song title, so here is the poem (Fortunately, most of my photos were already on my computer, so losing the camera in the lake wasn't horrible). I know that some of you might not relate to this poem and have your own joys and concerns about thighs and other body parts. This poem is not a dis to you, but a celebration and poetry therapy for me. :-):







Thigh Dwellers

We are the thigh dwellers
peasant ankled worriers of bathing suite weather.
Suitable? Never!
Log-legged and land-locked by Gucci, Vercace, and Calvin Klein
we wish for elephant stampedes
along slender runways
to flatten fashion designers before next year’s line of micro-minis.

We are the thigh dwellers
who purchase nylons according to height and weight
and still must pack our legs in like pork sausage
and hear their rub, squeak, squeak amidst the skirt pleats
or stare at thread-bare, Blue-Jean crotches. Friction speaks.

We are the thigh dwellers
our fists fit into waist bands while pleats plot
and pockets crease at 45 degree angles
and “loose fit” is not even an aspiration.

We are the thigh dwellers
sturdy ancestral legs of Swedish descent.
Logger trees, “widow makers” that split wrong and fall toward men.
Pillared against pairing yet ample in love.

We are the thigh dwellers
fecund rounds of flesh wrapped round your hips
Quiver thick with passion.
Dance deep and wide as rivers and raw earth we spread
and give more than any bony-hipped, knobby-kneed lover, we do.
We do give all,
We do. We are,
we are the thigh dwellers
and we wish,
we wish
for no less.








I hear a raw, lusty drum beat...:-).





-Wendy