No one ever said:
You must love only perfect things.
So when I tell you,
“I love my body.”
I’m not claiming perfection,
or delusion,
or illusion.
It’s unfit, like a jellyfish with bones;
it’s neglected, a latch-key kid in its own skin;
it’s flabs-not-abs,
scars-not-spas,
pores-not-cores.
You are telekinetic.
Did you know that?
(Telekinesis is moving things
purely by the power of thought;
how else do you move your fingers
when you type?)
My body walks
my body runs
my body hugs and breathes and eats,
feels fresh air upon my cheeks and
rain upon my hair and
sun upon my arms and
the soft, damp kisses of my son upon my nose and
the warm, strong embrace of my husband on my shoulder and
the careful shoulder knocks,
fists bumps,
high-fives
from students who want to connect.
My body made a baby.
My body made a baby with zero
conscious effort on my part.
That’s better than telekinesis.
That’s magic.
Your body is like magic.
Did you know that?
And love isn’t only for the perfect.