If your panties fell beneath your thighs as you stood washing
your hair. If the sky stepped down to rest upon the bow
of your body. If the vine did not release your stretch.
Would you turn and see yourself? Shapes change.
The road map of an X-ray says you're here. Umbrellas fan
beneath the rain above your lumping mood.
Moss seldom goes home where capsules frame the fishbowl
of domestic herbs. Recline and watch the flower by the tank.
Touch the hide and better treat the light.
Unveil the curtain from your side. Lift your arm to elbow curve.
Speak up or down above the glide, for waves in bottles
sometimes leak. Cleaning soothes the restless, ringing hands,
the rubbing of the board. Let the muddy water run. Birds so high
see nothing but the mouse upon the ground, the promise
of a cap, the rock that will not hatch. Be glad.
Put the forest in the frame. Give it shade,
then walk away. City docks balance on poles centuries old,
still unclean. Sunflowers make positions, bend.
Maria Claire Leng holds an MFA from Bennington College where she was the first Jane Kenyon Scholar. Her poetry has also appeared in Grand Street.