Anatomy of Girl
Matina L. Stamatakis
I am in style this year--makeshift,
a paradigm chest, hard exoskeleton
on wrought iron skin. I think
of weight
as immovable,
distant between the center
of my thumb
and forefinger.
II
Yet there is mass,
compulsion in my webbed feet,
and a constant tap
in my spine that sends me
whirling,
reeling into the thick of hysteria.
III
I live to serve the femur and fibula--dance
with the notion I have balance, equal proportions,
even in the distant corners
of my hips. I swing pendulums
on raw flesh, entertain the possibility
I am weightless this year--
next year
I hope to come back as the fading eye of a fad,
discrediting the weight of Newton’s Law.
