Leah Mueller

CRONE, PART THREE

My belly hangs
its bulging pillow

above the bristles
of my vagina, swells
beyond my pendulous
44DD breasts.

Ah, but underneath,
such powerful legs, poised
for sudden movement.

One summer afternoon
a New York subway
passenger inquired,

“Are you a dancer?”

I lied, said yes,
took a furtive peek
below the hem
of my sundress.

Chiseled and sinewy,
my legs looked
like they could

attack a steel door,
and the door would
lose the argument.

Sturdy pistons
carry my stomach
proudly aloft.

Compressed within
the sausage casing of
paisley stretch leggings,

a belly rests:
tamed but comfortable,
like an aging lion.

Sweet enough
to purr, but still
fierce enough to roar.