Whirling and After
I feel skin patches peel, gears slick and lock and link, turning counterclockwise, winding back time, reversing my life. When was I barely a shape? My body is mostly motion, a roller coaster from one piece of space to another. Motion peers through curtains of fascia, down halls of skin, pries apart pores, and breathes out to join wind, river, cloud, sea.
After whirling, I could remember how my body had once been color blocks in a mirror, silhouettes on a wall. Tubular highways laced through sodden sponges of organs clutching the bellows. I could remember that my body had been contours under fashion trends. Light couldn’t enter.
In a still room, I float. I remove a heavy overcoat and step into a warm tub. I gaze up at first, then close my eyes. I feel lightness, freedom, joints bobbing like water lilies. By the time the river comes to carry the tub away, to spill over me, my skin has melted, and my eyeballs roll under the arcing wave. My marrow rises into rain.