hips

walk in my new-ish jeans.

They are too long and too baggy and are only staying up

by barely hanging on to my hips.

My hips are made for birthing babies,

my AP Bio teacher once said as she had me stand

in front of the class in my junior year in high school.

She never commented on my breasts.

My hips were once a symbol of shame, and I wore

baggy pants to hide them, baggy shirts to hide my breasts

so that I could pass in a man's world.

I walked between the worlds of male and female

In my secret time I learned to dance

like a woman:

tribal dances, hip shaking dances,

with bells and coins attached to my hips to bring notice to them,

to break away from the shame.

I wrap my hips in denim.

I wrap my hips around my love.