By Cari Allen
Forty-one, thirty-five, forty-five. And fourteen.
Those are my numbers.
My measurements and my clothing size.
They all add up to make me, me.
This is not oversized, plus size, queen size, right size, or wrong size.
This is my size.
I may never be on the cover of a magazine because
I’m not their size.
But this is the size people paint sought after masterpieces
that bring titillation from aficionados and large dollar amounts from
collectors.
How much does that magazine cost again?
There will never be a staple across my abdomen because
I’m not two-dimensional.
I have undulating supple curves that can go for days
and soft pink breasts that swell with every breath and every month.
With one swing of my round full hips,
you will lose your breath and your religion
but still have enough left of both to whisper “Thank you, God.”
I will never be a supermodel because
I’m not a sample size.
Who wants to be sampled?
I want to be enjoyed fully, tasted completely, loved mercilessly.
If you sit at my table, come prepared for a feast that will last for hours
until you are as full as I am.
My tummy isn’t flat
and my ass certainly isn’t either.
Everyone knows the curvy, hilly roads
are the funnest ones to drive.
I glad I’m not skin and bones…don’t you save the bones for the dogs?
Forty-one, thirty-five, forty-five. And fourteen.
Those are my numbers.
My measurements and my clothing size.
They all add up to a perfect ten.
Cari is a member of Kentucky Slam Poetry Jam and a graduate student at the University of Kentucky.