Every morning I exercise
my body.
It complains
“Why are you doing this to me?”
I give it a plié
in response.
I heave my legs
off the floor
and feel my stomach muscles
rebel:
they are mutinous
there are rumblings
of dissent.
I have other things
to show,
but mostly, my body.
“Don’t you see that person
staring at you?” I ask my breasts,
which are still capable
of staring back.
“If I didn’t exercise
you couldn’t look up
that far.
Your life would be nothing
but shoes.”
“Let us at least say we’re doing it
for ourselves”;
my fingers are eloquent;
they never sweat.