Curves

By Wendy Díaz

My curves tell a story.

Of bondage and spiritual damage,

Of heritage and cultural baggage.

Maybe that’s why I have had saddle bags,

Ever since I can remember, even when I had flatter abs.

To carry the weight of my burdens,

Barefoot across the hot sands of beaches and deserts,

Destination uncertain.

My curves are treacherous, proceed with caution.

They speak of euphoria and utter exhaustion.

My curves tell a story,

Of motherhood - of seven pregnancies - six children on Earth,

And of breastfeeding from birth.

To two years plus,

Increasing and decreasing the circumference of my bust.

These curves tell a thousand stories,

Of skin outstretched over a broken heart,

Of loving deeply and growing apart,

Growing pains and stretch marks.

Finding my place in a land too small to contain this type of woman,

These curves are a national emblem, an ode to a superhuman.

A reminder for everyone,

That this land is not where I am from.

My curves encase an impenetrable mountain,

Whose roads are paved for travelers to go around them.

At a moderate speed to avoid an avalanche,

A catastrophe in which no one would stand a chance.

For, if this body were a temple,

It would make its faithful tremble.

But the soul who lives within is even greater,

A slave to no one but its Creator.

These curves tell a story,

Of living, breathing, and soaring.

A suspense, mystery, action,

thriller, drama, comedy, international.

My curves tell a story,

of honor and glory.