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.