Other Women Don't Tell You | Poems Rethabile Likes
Other women don't tell you
by Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach
it's a battle for the body, for every
part of it, he's all you, some say,
he has your eyes, and others, he has
your hair, look at those curls, and you let them
twist around your finger, vine tendrils
more plant than boy, more wild than will,
more him than you, but it's a battle
for ownership, for claiming the body
you left him with as yours, and when
you tell your mom he rode the escalator
up and down, repeating "Whoaaaaa"
in fascination at each descent away
from the fluorescence until the lights
of Gucci and Versace drew him
towards their dazzle, He has
good taste, your mother says,
then adds, You used to have taste too.
So now you lack the parts of you
you've given him, your eyes
are likely gone as well.
You're chasing a toddler, blind
through the shopping mall, you're Tiresias,
prophet, between earth and myth, god
and manlike thing, you've given everything
away to own these parts of him,
his eyes and hair, the certainty
that they are yours, or so they tell you.
So you are blind and bald and he is full
of sight and mane and beautiful, and soon,
your mother tells you, she won't know how
to talk to you, but also that he doesn't have
your mouth, his nose, she's said, is undecided still,
unclear if he will wear your history of bones,
dead noses piling up, all yours yours yours,
but maybe, not his, maybe, other women tell you
he looks just like his dad, and you see it
in his cheeks and jaw line, in the flatness
of his feet, the ankles caving in, and in the dips
from waist to hind, as though some god
or ghost has left their thumbprints
to remind you how his body
isn't yours at all.
part of it, he's all you, some say,
he has your eyes, and others, he has
your hair, look at those curls, and you let them
twist around your finger, vine tendrils
more plant than boy, more wild than will,
more him than you, but it's a battle
for ownership, for claiming the body
you left him with as yours, and when
you tell your mom he rode the escalator
up and down, repeating "Whoaaaaa"
in fascination at each descent away
from the fluorescence until the lights
of Gucci and Versace drew him
towards their dazzle, He has
good taste, your mother says,
then adds, You used to have taste too.
So now you lack the parts of you
you've given him, your eyes
are likely gone as well.
You're chasing a toddler, blind
through the shopping mall, you're Tiresias,
prophet, between earth and myth, god
and manlike thing, you've given everything
away to own these parts of him,
his eyes and hair, the certainty
that they are yours, or so they tell you.
So you are blind and bald and he is full
of sight and mane and beautiful, and soon,
your mother tells you, she won't know how
to talk to you, but also that he doesn't have
your mouth, his nose, she's said, is undecided still,
unclear if he will wear your history of bones,
dead noses piling up, all yours yours yours,
but maybe, not his, maybe, other women tell you
he looks just like his dad, and you see it
in his cheeks and jaw line, in the flatness
of his feet, the ankles caving in, and in the dips
from waist to hind, as though some god
or ghost has left their thumbprints
to remind you how his body
isn't yours at all.
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