Weight Gain and Menopause, a poem

Rose hips

In yoga class, surrounded by three walls
of mirrors, I cannot avoid my hips,
forty-nine-year-old bulging handles
wide at the wrong spot.

The truth about my hips: I find them
sturdy looking, square, front on,
but sideways they spread like sponges,
abundant woman fat, thick as butter on sliced
bread or baguettes bulging in the oven.

Bone on bone cracks as
I raise my legs, lying flat on the back.
Should soak these creaky hinges
in salt foam waves,
let my rose hips rise
like Aphrodite from the sea.

Perhaps a bath will perform some magic,
transform me into Venus
of Willendorf. Is it too much
goddess, to ask you
to bless my hips?