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.