Poetry
1 min
Ritual
Kelleen Zubick
It must have been the circumscribed
aspect of the sunlight—
approachable, laid out in distortion
from the window on the pile,
the creamy den rug, a possibility
of just now, of squeezing in—
that led to such solitary extravagance:
bathing in a patch of sun,
a practice that starts
on the shadowed edge: swift lift of shirt
and shirk of anything under,
the maille of colder air roughing skin,
then stepping in—not testing
but outstretched, tall, full-measure
then sinking, knees to chest, soaking
in temporary wonderment
where she can weave her hands
through the motey air, lean
back and let the dazzling
countenance wash her hair.
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