Hard

POEM by JENNIFER LAGIER

At thirty, my husband
demanded I look and act
as if I was sixteen.
It was like forcing my foot
into a shoe three sizes too small:
cramming myself into a life
that no longer fit.

When we separated,
guilt made me report for duty
in response to his
once a week call.
He’d leave fifty dollars
on the night stand
next to his bed,
tell me I’d be
so much happier,
probably still married,
if I just didn’t think.

After, I would
pump iron for hours,
run seven cross country miles,
shower and scrub myself raw.
I pared away feminine softness,
built muscles of steel,
became invulnerable and invincible,
made myself hard. 

JENNIFER LAGIER has published seventeen books. Her work appears in From Everywhere a Little: A Migration Anthology, Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California, Missing Persons: Reflections on Dementia, Silent Screams: Poetic Journeys Through Addiction & Recovery. Newest books: Trumped Up Election (Xi Draconis Books), Dystopia Playlist (CyberWit).