Thank you feet for carrying me
across garbled waves and scorching
concrete. For carrying a girl
who didn’t want to exist
in a woven basket of hatred.
Thank you lips for kissing lovers
and tongue for tasting the briny slime
of half-shell oysters at the bistro on Cross.
I rarely stop to hold my own hand—
hand which touches new growth:
lavender buds and garden-grown basil, striated
skin that textures my thighs. I swear that
sometimes my fingers share stories of the tiny
worlds they tuck in their grooves. I ought to
listen a little more often.
Maybe I will learn to trust.