Scrape my legs,
the black hair long,
grown four days
ignored
spent beneath the cover of the black uniforms of work.
Wondering aloud to no one
why I still follow this ritual
compelled upon at 12 by friends.
Mother's voice regirgitates
in mine, unchecked
telling me again
I'd regret it if I shaved my legs.
Do I? I wonder this aloud, again.
Is this simply the ritual of a woman
or simply obediance of something
put on by men and their society.
Preference is the smoothness of my legs
and the ritual, when not rushed,
of baring it all and then
covering it with love in the form of lotion.
Softening my legs
as I make friends with my body
somehting it said goodbye ot
at age 10
and the hands of an abuser.
Caring now for it, atempitng mindfullness
of healhty food and exercise
part of my new interest in Buddhism.
light shining from three years of studying religions
but fenced in by the Christian law
that saw Christ is the only way to God,
fearing death, shunning
and an endless hell of practicing this life
again and again.
Realizing that the ritual of shving is more
freely chosen the my own religion.
more thoughts than a poem, any revision suggestions?
Comments
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I really like the way all the ideas are tied together in this poem around the shaving ritual. I love the tensions in it too, the sense of the writer asking questions, trying to find authentic meaning.
It's very intimate too, like a private moment and thoughts shared honestly with the reader. It feels quite a privilege to read this.
There were some places where the wording seemed a little awkward, but overall it seems very free and flowing. Especially the idea of your mother's words coming out of your mouth - this really came alive for me at this point, like a dramatised situation.
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