——an ode to Sally
It’s been a long afternoon
of bubble blowing, chalk art
and racing in the pool.
We are soggy and puckered
the soles of our feet scorched
from our sprint on the porch floor.
In the bathroom, still dripping,
we peel off our suits,
mine, faded and baggy
where the elastic has started to dissolve,
hers, green and vibrant,
sequined butterfly sparkling on her chest.
We step into the shower together.
Her seven- year old body is lean and strong
her olive skin unblemished by sun or time
except for the tiny mole we call a beauty mark
barely visible on her left butt cheek
and there is not even a whisper of
self consciousness for this body
that has never been
shamed or humiliated
let down or deceived
threatened or violated
trampled or broken
cut open or stitched up.
ignored as if invisible or
told it’s ugly or too fat.
This is a body
pristine and pure
that measures itself only
against faint pencil marks
scratched on a door frame.
This is a body that wakens
with laughter and unseen dreams
that have a future.
This is a body that every day
jumps higher, hangs longer
and zooms faster believing that
helmets and knee pads,
are the only protection it needs.
Paterson Literary Review, Spring 2021
Elise Chadwick 