Cecilia Savala
—
Legs
Three parts calf, four parts quad, observable foundation
of strength, striated, galvanized. My stance
relies on Saturday mornings. I reminisce
about sunrise 5Ks: the goal, don’t be last.
Personal best measured in minutes and seconds—
personal best calibrated in loops or down and back.
I collect steps in defiance of DOMS and shin splints,
I steep myself in oil and ego—to amass resemblance to oak.
Heart-shaped muscle that bends without breaking,
takes stress weight in stride, carries my burden.
My pride lies not only in the deep pronouncement
of grooves, levels, stories. Protective sheen
extends my hours in the sun. My whole effect shaded,
width and depth, musculature of an athlete.
Cecilia Savala (she/her) is a Shrek-obsessed Latinx poet, teacher, and mom who writes about gender, body image, generational trauma, and cultural detachment, 1200 miles from home. She is a morning person, a cat person, a creative writing teacher at ASU, and the Virginia G. Piper Fellow-in-Residence. Her work can be found in Acentos Review, the Boiler, and Poetry South, among others.
* Poems are intended to be read on larger screens. Mobile and narrow browser windows break the original format of pieces with longer line lengths
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