She sways like six
feet of twine spiraling in the breeze,
a long-haired wisp of tie-dyed wind.
Flat on the mat, her torso rises to a sun-ascending arch
before twisting like a cobra pardoned from
a flea market basket.
She is all hips pumping like sex pistons,
her clothing-optional brain high on green tea and wine.
She is the nemesis of tight-ass jeans and
but this Greenpeace warrior long ago retreated
into throw pillows and a solarium in the burbs.
She mixes essential oils so that she may
slip through birch trees
by the stream where skinny-dipping is Holistic 101.
When night unshutters the coffeehouse and poet’s mouth,
she tokes a little this, a little that
before winding home
so that she may ground herself before evaporating into mantras
that flow naturally from the mushrooms in her stash.
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