If I lift my chest
high enough
and stretch up
tall enough
I can feel my spine
holding me up
asking to linger
just like the pen
in my fingers
as it presses into
it’s rightful place
on paper
taking up space.
There is no need to question
as my back muscles
lengthen
lifting my head forward
into the twist of words
where there were
none before;
just my body
on a mat
on the floor
recognizing the writer
the poet
in me.
The Day Between 