FIT and Other Poems
Photo Courtesy | Melaina Williams
BY MELAINA WILLIAMS
FIT
The clothes don’t fit.
Not the pre, maternity or
ever-changing post.
I need new clothes,
custom fit for me.
Not too tight.
Not too big.
Curved just right
so, I can walk like me
and feel the free
in the seams and the cut.
The clothes don’t fit.
Not 4 or 8. Not 14 or 16.
I am always in-between
I always need it taken in,
Let out, pinned here, tucked there.
Where is the seamstress
to give me the perfect fit?
L XL XXL
Fits my hips, not my chest.
Fits my thighs, not my waist.
The clothes don’t fit.
42 37 48
The numbers don’t matter on the tape.
I am just looking for the right size.
My daughter gave me these breasts.
My son gave me these hips.
The fibroids gave me this stomach
full and soft
The clothes do not fit.
To think of it, I look my best
draped in this skin.
This garment molded to
my design.
Irregular and refined.
Not for sell.
The clothes may never fit
but this skin fits me well.
Elevator Living
Someone is always up early Saturday morning playing music extremely loud. So loud, they must live to the right of our bathroom or maybe above or maybe right below. This is apartment living – living on top, underneath, besides, around one another. We pass how are you’s in hallways, hold elevators and quickly close them too. Sometimes you can’t wait. Sometimes you want to be alone instead of laugh about the leashed dog sniffing at your grocery bag or remain awkwardly silent until one of you sees your number light up. Have a good one. Only a few steps closer to sanctuary.
It's when I see the apartment children grow; when the elevator closes on a long day in the 5th grade and opens on the last semester of college, that’s when I feel community. I am witness to life unfolding. Now that I have children, they are the signs for someone else that time is indeed passing by and a ride in an elevator with a stranger just might be the awkward we need to remind us we are not here alone.
My Journal is Not My Own
Journaling is mommy time.
When my little girl sees me writing,
she beams.
She rushes to my side to watch me,
to ask to use my pen
No, mommy is writing.
Go play.
This is my own, I think.
This is unapologetically unshared.
Then my heart speaks
It is good to want to write.
I want her to know the art of
self-excavation.
I want her to know her story
and record before anyone else can.
Put your hand here.
She places her small hand over the journal lines.
I trace it.
She quietly studies my movement.
Lifts her hand a little too soon.
She cheers. She contributed.
I smile.
This is my own.
I continue to write.
Loops and lines of my handwriting
blending with the lines of her traced hand.
The open space in the fingers and palm
taken up by the letters in my thoughts.
Today my journal is filled with miniature hands
full of words, full of dreams, full of pains,
full of prayers, blessings…
miniature hands like footsteps in sand,
like road signs to forever.
MELAINA WILLIAMS is a poet, playwright, singer/songwriter from Inglewood California. She finds great joy in connecting with people of all backgrounds through creative arts, especially creative writing. Melaina studied Creative Writing and Theatre at USC. Her book of poetry, "Bless Your Sweet Bones" was published by the historical World Stage Press in Leimert Park. She also penned, "The Humble Commode" a chapbook. She currently lives in Los Angeles and spends her days writing and binge-watching Baby Shark with her “two under two.”