Liminal Spaces
She floats on her side, clad only in water.
Her auburn hair, shoulder-length, unfurls
curled tendrils that mirror the spiral flux
of liquid volume displaced. Half-submerged, half in air,
framed, mounted—a painting above my bed.
Mornings, I watch her as I stretch
my back, hips, legs, follow the path of sun
reflection through the high paned window,
right to left, time delineated. When I begin,
the shadow hasn’t touched her yet.
On cloudy days I miss the light trail across her body.
As I lift and bend, lines of the panes parallel her spinal column,
intersect her neck, crosshatch her breast. Sometimes the shadows sharpen,
and the turquoise purples. When the wind quickens, it casts vestiges
of twig and leaf along her skin, superimposes a haze, a veil.
I push through pain and constraint to the seam of shine
in the hair near her ear, to her incandescent nakedness,
her aqua aura. Once, a shadow-bird landed on her shoulder.
~ In response to a painting by N. Raen-Mendez
Her auburn hair, shoulder-length, unfurls
curled tendrils that mirror the spiral flux
of liquid volume displaced. Half-submerged, half in air,
framed, mounted—a painting above my bed.
Mornings, I watch her as I stretch
my back, hips, legs, follow the path of sun
reflection through the high paned window,
right to left, time delineated. When I begin,
the shadow hasn’t touched her yet.
On cloudy days I miss the light trail across her body.
As I lift and bend, lines of the panes parallel her spinal column,
intersect her neck, crosshatch her breast. Sometimes the shadows sharpen,
and the turquoise purples. When the wind quickens, it casts vestiges
of twig and leaf along her skin, superimposes a haze, a veil.
I push through pain and constraint to the seam of shine
in the hair near her ear, to her incandescent nakedness,
her aqua aura. Once, a shadow-bird landed on her shoulder.
~ In response to a painting by N. Raen-Mendez
Karen George is author of five chapbooks, and three collections from Dos Madres Press: Swim Your Way Back (2014), A Map and One Year (2018), and Where Wind Tastes Like Pears (2021). Her work appears in Adirondack Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Stirring, Mezzo Cammin, Thimble Literary Magazine, SWWIM, and Mom Egg Review.
Art: Winter Afternoon, oil on paper, Paulina Swietliczko