This a rewrite of my calisthenic from Week #1.
Discovery
An effigy of bare-breasted Diana perches atop a petite, verdigris moon,
her bow poised to penetrate the surrounding glass of the natatorium.
The steep slope of her back and the upward tilt of her nipples tell me
to follow the trajectory of the arrow she aims at dormant tree limbs
veining a vapid sky. I quiver at the prospect of melding with her arrow.
In the pool, ladies’ legs flick á tempo to the instructor’s constant count—
her sharp voice intruding on their compulsive badinage. Some fleshy,
some firm, they chatter, gyrating and gasping for breath, their
nervous din echoing all around the transparent enclosure. A sampling
of men have self-quarantined inside the lap lanes near the green goddess,
as if to guard her in seduced silence. Every few minutes, one or two
of them dive underwater, perhaps to escape the clamor, perhaps to
secretly stare at her nakedness. Another masticates a toothpick so as
to relieve his lifelong smoking habit, while yet another swims freestyle,
some firm, they chatter, gyrating and gasping for breath, their
nervous din echoing all around the transparent enclosure. A sampling
of men have self-quarantined inside the lap lanes near the green goddess,
as if to guard her in seduced silence. Every few minutes, one or two
of them dive underwater, perhaps to escape the clamor, perhaps to
secretly stare at her nakedness. Another masticates a toothpick so as
to relieve his lifelong smoking habit, while yet another swims freestyle,
scorning any group activity.
Muting my muliebrity, I arc into the arbored maze and meld
with nature’s architecture. The morning’s low canopy of clouds
quells my inner disquiet. Seasoned palms caress the smooth skin
of leafless limbs as I swing primitively from oak to maple to birch
and embrace the cool November breeze. Pausing on a lofty branch,
I marvel at my expertise, for I have freed Diana from captivity and
returned her to the diaphanous world she loves. She smiles back
at me appreciatively.
with nature’s architecture. The morning’s low canopy of clouds
quells my inner disquiet. Seasoned palms caress the smooth skin
of leafless limbs as I swing primitively from oak to maple to birch
and embrace the cool November breeze. Pausing on a lofty branch,
I marvel at my expertise, for I have freed Diana from captivity and
returned her to the diaphanous world she loves. She smiles back
at me appreciatively.
It is then that I realize: Somewhere, ages ago, I must have chosen to crawl.
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