Small Body

By Sarah Komanapalli

In my apartment I feel small.
And even in that smallness
I am intrusive.
The light from the window
Leans flat against the wall
Forming grey rectangles
Around the black door frame
I am staring at a composition.
A wide purple sky behind
Sentinel orange electric lights.
White blinds as long stripes
And a potted plant, green, full
All the colors mixed heavily
With black.

I wonder what lines might
Finally reach completion
If my body would cease.
What curves of the sofa
Do not reach full arc
Because of my form, now
Stretched, extended, a lazy
Interruption. This blanket’s
Rolls are forced
Around me. The clock,
Counter, and wall are trying
To assemble. How can they
With my head blocking
The critical point of their
Intersection?

In each wall I look towards
I see beautiful, intentional line.
The perfect bend of the fern
Gesturing to the hard table
Edge that supports a cream
Candle gently melting inside glass.
I am just out of frame and
This is for the best, the piece
Is already complete. Unless
I add a mirror, then at once
I am there among the objects.
It is an
Insult to their stillness this
Shifting, agitated body.
I wonder at this
Understandable exclusion.

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