How I Love You
Jennifer Perrine
I have stretchmarks
along my upper thighs, furrowed
blossoms that travel my hips.
They caught me
unprepared,
blooming one night
as I modeled
nude before a mirror,
lines that screamed
growth
and sudden loss.
I wanted to douse them with creams,
tattoo across their ridges.
My nails carved at the puckered skin,
my fingers fumbling
to the rut
that once held
the petals of earliest desire.
My pinky slid across
the highway that spanned
my first IQ test
and the summer I shoveled
shit for minimum wage.
An errant thumb
dove its pad
into
the rivulet
that ran despite
its dikes and dams.
My hands
unwittingly
found their home,
hollows wide
and welcome as flaws.
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