I am crooked, my jagged vertebrae rolling
down my back like worry stones,
the rounded edges blurring just under the skin.
And sometimes I can’t help but smooth
over the fabric of my worry, twist up the
coverlet to my chin and wait for time to
pass, like water over stones.
But I am more like refractions of light,
the kind that seeps under dress collars,
searching for salvation along the chalky lines
of my wrists and elbows--I am
perseverant hues of cornflower blue
and Crayola pink.
And I am more than all of my anxiety,
more than the broken slope of my back
and the space between my fingers, toes.
I am illuminated. I am cracked window
panels and glowing linoleum.
But more than anything, I am beautiful.