I carry on with the folding

In my dream I dance in a feathered gown, the bone-white shade of milk.  My arms sway and lap and fold in reverse, my hands grasping the curve where back meets buttock.  I am able to arch entirely, the tip of my head grazing the cross of my waist-high hands.  I stay there, easing imperceptibly from left to right, aware that I am being watched.  But the pose is too perfect to give up for the discomfort of a voyeur.  I arch back further, and further, as far as I can go.  Further than I have attempted before.  Until my back feels creaking and about to split, like a child’s shard of malleable balsa; but I do not stop, I carry on with the folding, because I have lost fear of an outcome and there is nothing I want more in the world but to keep folding and so it is what I do.  Further back, and back.  I fold back.  Back I fold.  Until the top of my head is striking the ground and my palms are flat to the asphalt and I am smiling.  In this impossible pose, my body stays taut.  My body does not collapse.  And in this impossible pose, I drip.