Release

with a big breath
and long exhale
i walk myself through the steps
spread your legs
slightly apart
right under your hips
my tumbling coach watching
as i moved into alignment

the first time i heard it
it struck me as a phrase i would never forget
women—tumble from their hips,
men—from their shoulders
‘your power’
he would tell me
comes from my hips
i looked down
expecting
suited armor
or a cape to believe
that it was true

my hips were my burden
mexican birthing hips
inherited from my mother
and her mother
and her mother
weight made its home there
jeans stopped before they could get over the hills of my body

othered
until a few years ago brands remembered that not all women had slim bodies
i’ve carried babies there
awkwardly
nieces and nephews with
dangling legs and flailing arms
tilting my frame to carry their
weight

hips
carrying more than they were meant to
pushing pain and its disciples there
unintentionally

movement
freed me from the torturous pain
stacking my body
in order to control my isolations
allowing my hips to dip right
fully supported by my stance
reminding me of my power
flow
transforming into a
shiny
impenetrable force of
armor

Cheyenne Evans is a Mexican and Black poet from the south suburbs of Chicago, who writes and dances as authentically as she speaks. Surrounded by the ocean and mountains in the PNW, she creates art that explores the complexities of human emotions, relationships and the delicate dance between dreams and reality.