What I Told My Legs

By Lissa Perrin

PROMPT—The story I told myself ...

I never liked you; you’re short, sturdy,

and hairy, requiring daily maintenance.

You’re like my mother’s— built for comfort,

not for speed. I was taunted by Twiggy,

Veruschka and mini-skirts.

I worried about your future:

Would you grow into tree trunks?

Bow out like Grammy’s?

Would your skin end up old lady white —

pale as a grub beneath an overturned stone?

I’d think about Mrs. Herlihy, tall and slim,

fit from tennis and golf, her arms firm,

with faint Irish-freckles. But her legs

were covered with snaky, purple veins,

some red ones shaped like coral.

I was horrified. And mesmerized.

But oh, how I love you now, stumpy legs—

you short, sturdy, hairy limbs. How grateful

I am for your dancing, bike riding, swimming,

pickle ball playing, love making foundations of fun.

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Lissa Perrin is a retired clinical social worker who lives and writes poetry in Ann Arbor, MI. Lissa also journals, bikes, plays pickleball, swims, visits museums, travels, and loves being Grammy to a three-year-old and a fourteen-year-old.