Buddhist monks are known for practicing walking meditation,
a state of constant mindfulness.
It is less known, but I also practice a constant state
of fear, walking anxiousness.
A child, a mother, a husband
depend on the sharpened needle
to thread arms for hugging, lips for smiling,
and a neck George casually called fat in Spanish class
for tilting back a chuckle.
She is strong.
Coffee shop nods and pillow gazes alike
ignore the blood diamonds
I’ve picked for along my thumbs.
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