The waves curl and crest. Churn and break. Again and again. Like our breath. Escaping into summer air. We were so young then. Our bodies, Rushmore and Everest, to the ants crawling the grass beneath us. We were giants watching stars and under-bellies of planes. We were ants, from up there. Less than ants. Less than dots. Indiscernible to naked eyes. It was all so possible then, the ants, the mountains, the dots, us.
Noun. 1. Crested swell of bone responsible for the rise and fall cadence, swagger, sultry waltz, swing, roll, rotate, grind, swivel of potential motion released. 2. Nestled behind the navel, two outstretched wings above a rhizomatous birth-root, nectar-filled, hollowed, succulent pleasure cave. 3. Place the shell of your ear upon it, fossa to fossa, and listen to the tumbling roar of crashing waves within the concha, an internal trilling of perennial desires lighter than helium, soft as lily, sharp as a thousand lumens thrust from the dark. 4. One half curvature of a calcified cradle, trillium blossom, open, reaching, rock.
Emily Bertholf is a writer from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. More of her work can be found in Digging Through the Fat, Lost in Thought, Postcard Shorts, and vox poetica.