dripping into triangle pose,
with strong legs and
a twisting core,
my palm sliding down
sore, soft shins
to reach the floor,
and my eyes, which ought to be fixed
on my opposite hand,
are momentarily fixed on you
and the way you like to watch.

powder-pink carnations
in a cobalt-blue
translucent pitcher.
your unbuttoned,
secondhand-owned
Naked & Famous shirt.
the conversation you decide to start
while I’m in the most difficult pose.

I adore you
and the way you make fun of
my seriousness,
my victorious breath,
like pressing your ear to a seashell.

I’m so sure of you
and the ease of your interest
in the messy parts of me.
The faint jingle of my necklace.
The ticking of a clock.

Your mood—
its own kind of
proprioception,
rewriting the air
around us.

(Daily Writing 046)