Zoom in:

And she’s crouched on the floor, clawing

her hands into thick thighs, bulbous skin,

young, the kind dying to be touched

not pulled.

The voice of her mind screaming silently,

jealousy becomes her. You are not this or

her. You are not, you are not, myopic labeling,

the kind that forms false identities.


Zoom out:

Who are you? Or rather, who do you want

to be?

Laughter becomes her and this is the moment

that is owned by us all, as we form bridges over

which Creation flows. Your hands are tied to my

feet tied to my hands. Yoga bodies form mandalas

in time,

through time.




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