[Full Moon by Paul Klee]
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.