Billow

Full Moon by Klee

[Full Moon by Paul Klee]

Billow

Her head reaches upward, pining

towards a high-beamed roof.

Tailbone weighted to body-smoothed

wood. Her legs radiate from her groin,

wanting to extend themselves so long and so taut

as to brisk the far walls–pipe-covered,

the light spillage from the window.

Then she bends and wraps her right leg over her left,

downing the weighted head, her neck draped

like an iron chain over the knees.

She inhales and her belly fills.

She can see it balloon, curled as she is.

Her back widens and she drifts

lightly up to the corner of the high-beamed roof.

Water stains see her approach from the worn wood of the floor.

“Do you know our names?”

“Not yet,” she replies.

All the beautiful blots gaze at her.

She cannot get down.

Her breath holds her up with the water stains, their eternal stare.

She’s a little worried now. She must get down.

She tries to pull at the top

of the light-filled window.

Now her head pines for the floor,

her tailbone fights gravity.

But her legs won’t be pulled down.

It occurs to her to exhale. A space hollows between

her hipbones. She drifts softly down,

passing through the light spillage.

Easy. She rests in her place. Her place.

Resilient vines trail out her spine

and root themselves in the worn wood floor.

She is safe now. Wood-bound.

Downed by her chains of bones.

Taut goodness rips through her buttocks.

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