Starting with my head, I notice golden curls
unraveling softly over my collarbones.
Just below, my breasts gently sink stickily against the top fold of my belly skin.
I look down and finally believe what an acquaintance said:
I am one of those women in a Boticelli painting. 
Sliding my hands down my sides, I feel my roundness
without moral implication. 
My hips and legs melt into the surface beneath me.
I notice bruises on my thighs and shins that say, “Yes! Life happens here.”
I move my feet from side to side and, as if speaking when spoken to,
my ankles whisper, “Loosen me, I need to walk, dance, pedal.”
The visible veins at the top of my feet remind me of winding water bodies.
My toes are tiny and precious.

A challenge to readers: write a compassionate body scan poem for yourself. Reflect on each part of you that you notice. Be as kind and loving to you as you can.