I Am Mine

She used to tell me I was built like a brick shithouse.

The phrase poured slowly out of her mouth, soaked in

a Southern drawl & often with a silly wink & a whistle;

her words were never to be taken as insult—not at all

like others who have mentioned the curves I’ve owned

since my mid-twenties left me cloaked in what womanhood

really looks like. She had warned me when I was young

that those who lack restraint may put eyes on me,

& I was to swat hands, slap jaws, or take a baseball bat

to the crotch of any of the eager-handed attempting

to touch without invitation. It was usually during

Sunday conversations, sweet tea & pot-pies in our laps,

that she would tell me about her exes & which ones

she regretted loaning any of her attention. She would

advise me to take only what I want & not to care for

opinions of those who eyed me wrong. I give her credit

for the words across my shoulder; Maw-Maw held

no interest in tattoos but taught me to respect what’s mine