The body is argument, muscle, will. Waking in still midnight fog, moonlight turning the air outside to milk, I feel the length of my body like a stranger’s. Tissue, bone, viscera, the marrow, scars and skin in their long waltz, all weighted down, held to the bed, to the floor, to the earth. My eyes open to pale light. I hear my own breathing, feel air in my nostrils, blood moving in waves. I swing my legs off the bed and step to the floor, and all of it balances on the ball of my left foot, for a moment.
Cris Harris teaches writing and experiential education at an independent school outside Cleveland, OH, and spends his summers growing tomatoes and restoring a barn. His essays have recently appeared in The Flexible Persona and Alice Blue Review. His chapbook “Superposition” was a finalist for the 2015 Epiphany chapbook contest; selections are forthcoming in The Skylark Review.
Photo by Siri B.L.