All five feet and one
inch of it. Just enough to be
blessed. Hair unplucked, currents
of cellulite trickling
down hips. Blessed. These toes
blistered from so many miles
of walking in the wrong shoes.
Blessed. These curls
spiraling down my shoulders, frizzing
in the rain. Blessed. This skin
collecting color in the sun,
clearing in all that is bright.
This back, weeks of aching
from sleeping wrong or the weight
of carrying what is too heavy.
Blessed. In elementary school,
I would daydream my thighs
gone. Now, I let the lucky ones
pray to them. Blessed.
This stomach, not
flat enough. Now,
I feed it anyway, keep it
full. Blessed. The stone glittering
from my belly button.
These breasts
passed down by my mother
and her mother
and hers, heavy
and too big for me,
just right. I squeeze
them when I can’t breathe.
Blessed. My lungs
for breathing anyway
when air seems distant.