Habitus

Habitus

 

Her lithe limbs outstretched,

Each held in the perfect place,

At the perfect angles,

She lowers her supple body

 

Down through parsecs and lightyears

Of empty space,

Drawing across the blackness behind her

A single silk line.

 

At some distance,

Upon reaching a seemingly meaningless mote

Of void within void

The stirring within her,

The knowledge beneath knowing,

Tells her

“Here.”

 

And she agrees.

Of course it was here.

How could it not be?

This is exactly and only

Where a line needed to be.

 

This is the point in space

From which all other lines

Strung across the cosmos

Will radiate from.

 

It is the stirring

That guides her limbs.

The trembling within,

The ever-present promise,

Of the writhing without.

 

A backwards echo;

A resonance in time,

Between the strings that pull her limbs

And those that she so deftly places.

 

It is in the way

She hangs for hours

In attentive stillness

Like a dark star.

 

It is in the way

she seems to glide

effortlessly across her silk lattice;

The tips of her legs,

never unsure of where they will land.

 

It is in the way

She wraps her prey

Like a precious Swaddled infant,

Which she holds close,

Then kisses to sleep.

 

But it is nowhere

More clearly shown

Than in the way,

She lifts the bundle,

As it spasms away

Its last few flecks of life,

Only to place it back down again,

Perhaps an inch or two to the left,

Bringing it now into full alignment

With every atom in the universe.

 

It is in this,

That she seems to be saying:

“And There.

There You Go.

Finally,

In the exact place

You needed to be.”

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