Life. Without the quick disappointed glances in passing mirrors,
as we walk.
Without grabbing at flesh as if its amount, texture, appearance, is measurable.
– A scale of beautiful to worthless
spins by my eyes as a calculate my
I look down in disgust.
What if, instead,
I look down at the wonder
of tiny, separate, moving cells
that have merged from the majesty
and infernos of oceanic volcanoes.
Instead, instead I trace the whirling designs
of my skin.
The body that possesses strength to protect,
to hold a child.
The body whose hairs grace an intricate pattern.
The body that graciously cradles my consciousness,
and the collective consciousness
-what was and what is and what could be –