Mrs Edgeway

Mrs Edgeway

Mrs Edgeway

She squeezed my waist between the
flats of her palms
like the obstacle to a prayer:
“so skinny!” her greeting.

                            I had not seen her
since the wedding, when I dressed in green; she,
of course, in white. Everyone said
how young she was,
how decked-out in smiles.
                           I was unsurprised.
She’d had her period in fourth class, breasts
before I knew to expect them. And now
she was displaying the weight
bestowed by marriage, as though
her husband was provider, fattened her
like a rich Ghanaian wife.
No child yet, but her belly ripe.

Later, I eye my body in the mirror:
not skinny. But hip bones
jut hard; between my breasts is a space
where the sky opens wide; my skin is translucent.
                                                I trace the veins,
try to find some thing of substance.