This is the upside down world

My face, jackknifed to the floor,
feet soles-up to heaven.
It’s another way to look
at this world of painted flowers,
of screens at windows.
The mat will leave its weave
upon my cheek. Maybe this means
that I am strong. My angled neck
can lift the whole of me in
a headstand – I am not precarious.
My arms are lightning rods,
my back a brace, hips a bridge.
I am every yoga class you wish you did,
every stick of bone I own
trained to keep my poise. I see
the tiny bunnies of dust,
soft as scrumpled moths.
While I am turvy thus,
I blow them to the skirting boards
with measures of counted breath,
hold, hold myself stiff.
The more I stretch, the tougher
I form my muscle threads,
the nearer I get
to the clouds.