Hinge at the Joint

Bright smile and thick glasses. He slips the frames into a pocket while striding over to claim proximity.

Bigger than I’ve been since pregnancy. Stripped of makeup, wrinkled and pimpled and rank with sweat.

Side planks face to face.
I’ve known his name exactly three days.
Here we are grinning like teenagers and losing count.

Not done yet.

Dedication to each small climb, each tiny triumph. Here an apex.
A falling away.
Even on Skyline Drive, you’ve got to pull over and step out. Otherwise it’s just another commute.

Later. Lunch hour in solitude on the office floor. A year of glass yet this is the first time seeing that door. Slate blue rectangle bordered by brick. Hidden hinges. Out steps a tiny woman three stories below.

Stand with one foot tucked upon the opposite thigh. Hands meet at the heart.
Eyes at ten degrees.

There will always be more to do. Girlfriends Dogsitter Passport Taxes
Lunches Justice Network Neighbor
Spreadsheet Deadline
Schedule
Fix
Improve

Return.

Still with one foot tucked upon the opposite thigh. Palms together at the heart.
Ten degrees above the horizon.
The place you’ve been a thousand times is never the same place twice.

A boy far below rolls past on his skateboard. Tracking with total attention, my body sways in sync with his trajectory
and topples.

This openness refuses to differentiate between healing and harm.
Like any good potion
churning at matter.
Like mutiny among cells
that bind our hemispheres.

Like when a room tilts
and the mirror gives way
to sky.

Image: Manoj Mauryaa, Balance (2014)