at twenty-two, i let myself be talked into wearing heels at our wedding because
that is what brides do, don'tyouknow?
worn once and dirtied from sinking into rain-damp earth,
in photos i tower over my groom and am reminded
of a time i didn't listen to my instincts
i heed them better at thirty.
i cannot define Womanhood and suspect
prescriptive labels of running a size-too-small
to cover each one adequately.
aren't we, after all, created
to image an infinite, creative God?
your daughters will prophesy and re-imagine,
blazing trails and remaining faithful to the Spirit poured-out still
and i quit trying to squeeze my twice-swelled body into juniors' jeans,
embracing the woman i've become over the girl who once was.
shared with five minute friday at the gypsy mama. prompt: the women