Her spine is a tree that branches
around her heart, holds
the tent of her skin taunt
as a drum off which
the rhythm of the world
the tent of her skin taunt
as a drum off which
the rhythm of the world
must form a beat
she shapes the song, she bends,
she bends.
What would she carry in her pocket
if she knew the fast would end tomorrow?
Would she break the darkness open
like a loaf? Or crack the neon egg that
shivers over the jagged scoop of Mt. Toro,
slurp it down whole and quivering?
slurp it down whole and quivering?
She bends, she bends.
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