Wednesday, January 4, 2012
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.