For the Love of Contortionists

I want you to show me how you fold your toes.

Collapse backwards in compact space and do so

with such strength

while never touching a thing.

As your arms bend to wings

that compress into feelings.

I am in awe of your skill

which has me craving the sight of you

motionless in motion

as your leg nonchalantly

comes to rest behind your head.

My secret love for contortionists and

bodies maneuvering in tight spaces,

attuned to range and distance,

proportional to personal flexibility that I want to achieve

but afraid will frighten

what’s left of suppleness from my limbs.

I’ve been hesitant to ask for fear

of appearing foolish

in my love of bendy people.

Their adaptability and willingness to let go.

Endure extreme discomfort for a moment

until it subsides and teaching profound truths.

It always subsides.

As a result of your discipline which is daily.

Rolling neck stretches before

Yoga thrown in for fun.

Because the real work comes when chest is on thighs

with a snug fit in my clothes drawer.

Neat and slowed breathing among tee-shirts and tank tops.

Aching to wear you instead

but knowing my limbs would never fit,

as much as I yearn to melt into all your shapes.

Still there is hope

that my body learns a thing or two

to walk with you tomorrow into cupboard or carboard box.

Blend inside you and the confines of your carry-ons,

traveling to seek refuge in the microcosm

and relief from too much space.