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二十六日八月

I approach myself on the terrace of our convent turned B&B on the hillside overlooking the sea – could we actually see it, or was the air obscured by thousand of year old olive trees, like the one in our yard, or oranges? The space of my breath was in any case maritime, sunny, late morning. My back is to the edge of the patio, looking in towards the house. I woke up recently enough to shut my eyes halfway and fully in intervals, only ready to receive the warmth and brightness of the day and not yet anything else. I am sitting on the far right end of the table with my left knee up and slightly slouched in my chair. There is an umbrella to my left at the center of the table but it is closed.

I approach myself, hair down, more awake, and dressed comfortably. I take a seat at the end of the table, cattycorner to myself, so that my second left knee leaning against the table is pointed at my first self. I see how obvious and under regarded my own beauty is; I see the gentleness of my expression, the comfort with which I splay and spread and wield my body without fear of pain or judgment. Here is my own tenderness, my own forgiving smile, my own hand to hold, my own skin to admire. Here I am to caress, to nourish, to be caressed. This is the skin on my face, the way it stretches over the bridge of my nose, the articulation of tiny hairs on the surface of my skin.

This is the platform of my back to surrender myself to. These are my arms capable of and practiced in embracing. This is my tantalizing dance: between self and self, flesh and light.