When the Legs Won’t Go and Shit Like That

by Shaina

When the legs won’t go, I lie
down to the warm cantaloupe air, nose
piqued and peaked and peeked at
the I-struck-juice after taking out the seeds, and the fruit leaves
its syrup, wipe chin, up to and including eyebrow.  And then
the toes that hover up over down, hot gravel toes, tendons glued
like Thetis is my bedspread, holding tight, leaving feeble, and
I think of nothing–which is the troubles–and the skin ripples up
to melon air because it’s the obvious thing, as I am here, noticing

it and her and down gravity, first just molecular
dance, then condensation to syrup and the way we adhere to it, breeze
over the ankle, tired tendon, but then there’s the perfume again, slow head,
Thetis let go, and shit like that.