• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 04

Head Stand

I don’t stand on my head.
My feet are planted so firmly
above the roots of a cedar.
I can touch the bark, the dead
skin a buttress to my need.

I don’t stand on my head
or turn cartwheels
or bounce on a pogo stick,
not anymore, not since
I saw how hard it is

to turn the world back up right.
Not upright. Up right.
I dig in my heels, hold out
my hands to applaud the righteous
and hold off the wicked.

I don’t stand on my head anymore.
I let it do the work of up right.