Everyone has their own reasons for being brought to their knees.
Mine are beginning to strain and crack at the tender age of nineteen
whenever I stand up, but at the very least this proves
that standing up is never easy but always worthwhile.
Every man on my mother’s side has soles as dry and calloused
as parched earth without rain, yet their hearts are worn smooth
from years of walking miles upon miles on those very feet
just to reach the women they loved.
And every mole watercoloring my neck is never in the place
I’d most like it to be, yet somehow the softest, most vulnerable part of me
therefore becomes the most treasured for its uniqueness.
My body goes through seasons like the moon goes through cycles,
and each one of them leaves me thankful for the beauty of weather-
because all my aunts have the strength of a thousand hurricanes,
the wit and passion of ten summers put together,
and skin as soft as snow.
I am a decade’s worth of monsoons and spring rains,
and my internal compass has changed accordingly.
No longer do I fall in love like an unclosed wound or a shotgun
only minutes from going off,
but in the way my body taught me to be:
all bruises and double-jointed thumbs, fingernails still learning
how to grow from half-moons into full.
I love like my body loves.
The way each part cares for the other,
the way it never forgets
how to stop breathing.