Body Scan Meditation 

Illustrated by Lucy Zuo

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.

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