These folds in my back,
these dips in my waist and
the vibrations in my plumper hills
are not a sin.
They were crafted by forces that
that tether us to the very ground.
Why do we place traps
before our feet, unmanicured?
One wrong step: you must change,
loose the workings that warm.
I refuse to lie still in a cage,
to step knowingly into the snare.
I can make out glints of steel under leaves
as long exposure to darkness uncovers stars.
I am wiser than the “teatox,”
my skin curdles at the thought
of being wrapped,
bound against expansion.
This is how I take up my space,
leaping over the bait,
the clashing of metal
to my evolution.