are a rough zigzag of wood, a squared puzzle
where I fit my feet and ankles.
away the air, and I'm walking on
all that's left.
air isn't made to be cut into,
not meant to be splintered away
to make space for timber.
it's made to be breathed in
and walked through
and this staircase is stealing from it.
a pair of awkward limbs, designed like stilts
but made from flesh.
planted on stolen space,
i'm frozen only half-
way down. the logic in my brain
is splintering now, as well.
feet attached to ankles
clinging to calves
morphing into thighs
stretching up to meet waist
moving higher to belly
everything always going up
why don't i curve back down?
this fixation on growing upwards
seems unbalanced to me.
make as little sense as my legs which
are as puzzling as the staircase.
steps always climb upwards
like my body.
but my toes that point ahead claim otherwise
because I'm clambering down this sanded lumber
to reach the basement.
so maybe my belly is reaching down to meet my waist
smoothing into thighs
slendering to calves that
extend to join to ankles and
ankles that flow into feet.
this confusion is forgotten in a second,
melting down or
i'm left stranded on common sense,
a staircase the climbs up and tumbles down
in a body that stretches branches to the sky
and sends roots to the soil.