My right shoulder. Breathe in and out. Not the pain you run away from, but a twilight of one.

My back, breathe in and out, the ribs move under aching muscles, the night's sleep not restful or calm.

My head. Breathe in and out. Clenched teeth, right temple—a crater of lingering dull punches of blood pumping through my veins, eyes straining even when the warm blankets of my eyelids provide the cover.

My hips. Breathe in and out. The tightness of many squads covered by flesh I'm trying to love by taking care of it.

My feet. Breathe in and out. Rough skin of one against the other, collapsed arches, toes fanning to stretch the sweet soreness of walking.

My body, breathe in and out, parts and pieces that carry me through the day, love me in my oblivion, in my vain attention to wrinkles, as my lungs expand, my heart beats, my muscles contract, my gut nourishes me.

My discovery, breathe in and out, today is of myself and of the wonders I hide and take for granted.

I wake up aware of my every cell and face this day, mindful of breathing in and out.