Читать книгу Where the Sky Opens - Laurie Klein - Страница 15

For starters, don’t call it a cage,

corralling the breath. Savvy fingertips

mutely Braille two dozen ribs,

each commandeering its own space

24–7, salaaming and shifting,

then rising. Selah-h-h-h . . .

Next, re-envision those lungs as an inner atlas:

one hundred routes

funneling

into branch lines,

cloverleafs,

cul de sacs.

Wild as papyrus, they might be

a psalter. A Rorschach. A centerfold.

Or call them dual panniers

flanking a breastbone,

an albino koi kissing a mirror,

all lips and flared silk.

Now, boneless as a cat at rest,

inhabit that next inhale, discerning

how spacious a backbone can be,

freeing shoulders to roll, the head to loll

and lift, floating into place: the body

aligned, alight, a home for the holy.