self portrait in a yellow sundress

triangle toes:
my smallest toes curve inward
from years of ballet slippers
and curling them under
looking at the ground
trying to talk to you through
the shadows of my eyelashes
virgin and untouched by mascara

and hollows of knees:
show strain in concave soft places
hidden against white wicker chairs
or asphalt when its cool enough to touch
and not get bitten
bent in envy of my kneecaps
wanting to be the sister in the sun
I always knew
they were more beautiful

Achilles tendons:
always took the tension of tapping feet
and put it to use for thin ankles
torn skin by sandals and picnic benches
but not deep enough to fall
you never held me here
and dipped me into the brine
you let my face stay above the ocean instead

cellulite dimples:
are where a boy loved me once
those delicate things once called hips
now more like haunches
thin-skinned and scared
at times
or brave like ruddy tribal boys
only in the summer

pelvic bones:
are shaped like moths
or bones for birthing children
depending on your outlook
and how much so many girls
want these bones to peek through their skin
I’ll keep mine as they are
with the rest of me
made of stained checker tablecloths
and skin pigments all the same

femurs:
are the longest bones
long like hand-woven barbed-wire fences
or two westbound trains
stags antlers or umbrellas for two
and twice as likely to break if you’re careful
but I’m never so careful

navel:
we were once connected
like a Victorian diver to the boat
and your womb was the Banda archipelago
where I never found the nutmeg
or else it was Bahia Honda
and I was forever
(for 8 months and 17 days)
looking for something I’d never find

last rib:
this is what we’re made of
that hiding rib that nips us in at the waist
like proper cosmopolitan girls
someday I’ll meet a man who’s missing one for me
like Lamar for Louise
and wonder if he passed down
that thirteenth rib

backbone architecture:
roman aqueducts under paper mache
making a replica like a mask
slouching you count my vertebrae
and tell me to eat more
or sit up straight
like the proper Victorians you pretend we are
I place the forks in descending order out from the plate
and wait for him to pull out my chair
we are hypocrites
glove-tipped fingers together
we are women
with white lace
what’s the difference?

nipples:
peep through blouses only on occasion
only for a reason                 
only as a means
oh no
I’m thinking about lipstick or how cold it is in here
but really
I’ll tell Ken to buy that plot of land
it’s really not all swamp
and my words and glances were
much more humid than they seemed
or tasted
distilled with grapes

collar bones:
are frames for cameos
pink cameos with ivory silhouettes
or antlers of stags again carved with more finesse
or a finer chisel enough to frame a face
with so many misgivings
that these clavicles shy away from the neck
and the heirloom pearls you string around it

jaw line:
draws words from my chin
after they bow at my lower lip
or up further at the Cupid’s bow I should say
with frown lines and laugh lines
and how it’s hard to tell the difference after so many expressions
that night walking with him downtown
when the rain lingered on the pavement and the streetlights
and he made me walk under the canvasses
so the rainwater wouldn’t drip in my hair
and he kissed me on the new skin just below my ear
those frown lines that day were yours
I learned them soon
and learned from them

widow’s peak:
the one thing we still share
my hair won’t turn gray at the peak and flow outward
from loss of love or loved ones or self
or the day you made my father a widower in spirit
and decided not to love him
but never gave your wedding band back.









Rebecca Anne Renner is  a poet and aspiring novelist, born and raised in the Sunshine State. She is a recipient of the American Academy of Poets University Prize and is the editor in chief of Barrier Islands Review. She is currently attending Stetson University for her BA in English with plans to further her education with an MA in English Literature.