Ode to my Hairy Legs


woman long skirt



Ode to my hairy legs,

Keepers of the sane,

Wilted part of me,

As I try to create

A zen garden with

The sand and rocks

Of my twisted soul.

Or is it my mind?

Can a soul be twisted?

Can minds be straight?

But I digress.

As I was saying.

Ode, oh ode, to my hairy legs.

They are not hairy

As a banner to my feminist

Anger at the dictatorship

Of Mr.Gillet and company,

Or as an embrace to my natural

Self, acceptance of my ape

Nature, or my wilderness.

Their mission is bigger than that.

They are hairy to keep my alive.

Because, for all my chants and meditations

And CBT and Psychodynamic talks,

And my love for the truth of

Everything and every bod,

Fat or slim, tall or short,

Deep down, beyond the love and light,

I am rather shallow and vain.

Like, really, truly vain.

I have a 50’s etiquette teacher

Hiding inside of me. A lady

Does not leave without a hat

Or undone lips.

And a lady shaves, if not every day,

At least twice a week.

So, when I hold the razor and ask

Myself if I truly have a reason to live,

And I run out of excuses and convince

My embroiled brain that the world

Is better off without me, I look at my legs.

And I’ll be dammed if I will let any police

Officer see me in that state.

The blood, the mess, eh…

That I can live (or die) with.

But strangers gazing at my

Hairy legs? Hell no.

Not tomorrow, not today.

I would have to have loss

My last inch of dignity and self-worth,

My last breath of humanity

For let that to happen.

So, I sing to my hairy legs,

That keep me alive, that

Keep me safe.

That give time to think it

Over, and find again the light,

And move the gravel of my thoughts

Into a zen garden in my mind.

So, ode, oh yes, to my hairy legs!

And my most sincere thanks,

To the flowy, long, bright summer dress.



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