Noa Cohen Blessed Be This Body after Levi Cain

All five feet and one inch of it. Just enough to be blessed. Hair unplucked, currents of cellulite trickling down hips. Blessed. These toes, blistered from so many miles of walking in the wrong shoes. Blessed. These curls spiraling down my shoulders, frizzing in the rain. Blessed. This skin collecting color in the sun, clearing in all that is bright. This back, weeks of aching from sleeping wrong or the weight of carrying what is too heavy. Blessed. In elementary school, I would daydream my thighs gone. Now, I let the lucky ones pray for them. Blessed. This stomach, not flat enough. Now, I feed it anyway, keeping it full. Blessed. The stone glittering from my belly button. These breasts passed down by my mother and her mother and hers, heavy and too big for me, just right. I squeeze them when I can’t breathe. Blessed. My lungs for breathing anyway when air seems distant.