Yoga

Yoga

She rests high above,
reigning over the family,
keeping an eyeless watch.
Far from the sands of Venice
she has made a new home, here
amidst the bottles, canisters, and vases.
Her mysterious construction intrigues
with its simple complexity.
She is whole yet

incomplete.

Torso
balancing
on a slender arm,
held steady by a single
hand no abdomen to rest upon.

She sits in quiet contemplation,
head in hand, sharp elbow
resting on knobby knee.

A single hoop earring
hangs askew from her ear,
broken in a fall, perfect circle
mended with delicate precision.

Every mark scarring her sleek sepia
surface is known from running my
hands languidly across her bali-
wood form, Gathering
strength from her
cool solid
figure.

She is
caressed at
each opportune
moment –my fingers
brushing along a hairless curl,
down a face without features – and
then Yoga is gently replaced
to her throne atop the
kitchen cabinets.
9.16.03

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