I lie, braided and beautiful. Dead, actually. A vine winds around my body, and it flowers above my head. Irises rest in my hand.
I am graceful and complex and warm in the sun as I rise and float in a dancerly way, or dance in a floaty way into town, down among the shops, swooning in the weekend morning air— swooping around a lamp post coyly, headfirst. I hold myself aloft sideways. Somehow, I still have weight. Oh, the dear weight of me, from my fingertips to my toes! I course with power, like caffeine, only fresher and more natural, like wet bark essence emanating from my pores, as I hold my otherworldly body perpendicular to the metal post, like only a very strong, slight person can do.
In fact, now I am a Chinese man, a 20 year old Olympic gymnast, on the still rings. I look magical as I raise myself from the mat with widespread arms– my muscles roped– to a suspended pike position, toes pointed. I am trained, honed, elite.
How I love my body. I celebrate it and sing it up, like Walt Whitman would have done.