Soloing at Caley

I was thirty: gibbous, flushed,
gracious belly spreading the easy news.

They hadn’t seen me the day before:
free-climbing ballerina out of the music box,

feet in sandals–tightened, just in case–
fingers gift-wrapping crag
-fast quartz I dared not resist.

And the feet were fine,
furtling dimples and curves,
rock giving way to both of us.