Thigh Gap

It's true: I have it though I hardly approve of anything it does. Supposed bend of light or smudge where two odd angles cross. I hardly see— can hardly do a thing with it. White zone of no flesh pressing into no. So low, I can’t scale or measure it. I used to think: OK! A clean sharp place to keep. Or: I'll growa thing! to keep, for me! But no. It's just a ward to mark & mount, a loop I lope around with, so I count myself a realm of realms. I vote & vote. Turns out, we agree with everything we do, almost. We sweep the precincts of ourselves: the rooms between each rib & under them till we reach the fat red condo where our blood leans in. We live here now. Half heart, half townhouse. Come on down. Turn on that sweet TV. Our mise en place, our rugs & nooks: we’re full of stuff. We paint the furniture we couldn’t live without. It’s true at last: we have it all though we hardly know what any of it does.