HiveComb

After the shower,
I face my reflection
no longer armed with the old, sharp eyes,
measuring my worth,
by pink, wobbly flesh.

I look instead at the map of my skin,
it tells a journey;
my child bearing hips,
my evenly balanced breasts.

Do I see in my reflection
the history of my family,
the immortal stamp
of mothers, sisters, aunts?
I find them all in me,
encouraging me to get better.

I venture to the kitchen
standing tentatively,
wary of the chair you’ve pulled out for me.
This table has been a court of judgement,
the scene of battles,
I wear the scars.

You offer bread
and I realise
how hungry I have been.
I sit and recall the taste of joy,
Glad you’ve waited for me to join you.

“Can my hands now break the bread,”
I wonder
“offer it to one who has been starving?”
I sip some wine,
savouring the feeling
this meal is not a fight,
but a feast.

I drink to my health,
toast
the person who survived
the winter of their own making.

It’s been a slow greeting.
I apologise a million times,
but I have finally arrived
loving the life that chose to stay.