Toting my strut
not in my waist or bum but
between my neck and heart;
horizontal bone, traced in pairs,
and yet each lies
on either side
perfectly alone
Sheathed in skin,
she peaks above sheer dresses,
shaming folds of
fabric with her jutting firmness,
protruding elegance
though veiled by countless
cotton threads
Never decorated with blush or gloss,
never weighted, never teased,
never worried
to protect her
from harmful touch
I flaunt the curve in my bone,
with an outline
more defined
than the swell of my breast
Un-soft, compact, no marrow,
a surge, a wave, rising
from an ocean of blood
and a shore of flesh
Most commonly broken, yes,
for her unique position,
as the connection
in a matrix of muscle and ligament;
the support from my arm
suspended, blades move freely
push up and pointedly,
for this skeletal piece
is Latin for little key
If I reach, she accommodates,
rotates on genetic axis
like the earth,
but of bone,
the top half of a picture
frame for the portrait
of my body and form;
last bone to ossify
but first for any embryo
And yes, the case may break,
but listen to the echo
when knuckles thrum
along this bone
Nothing marks womanhood
better than a beat
so close to the heart,
still safe from injury
___
Mehmoosh Torbatnejad was born and raised in New York. She holds a BA in journalism and sociology from New York University and a JD from the Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law. She has loved poetry since she was first introduced to the rhyming genius of Dr. Seuss’ literature, and has been writing poetry since. She currently lives in New York and practices matrimonial law.