Poems I tell the Sauna

Yellow wallpaper replaced with wood panels tells my heart race it can slow down.

You won’t be getting onto a metal table here, it whispers, as I undress.

Tables that feel like W40 sounds, clunky, cold, unsupportive.

My hands are free to fold out and then in, mimicking the sequence of my arching spine.

My catlike spine, though I fear cats, and my shedding skin folding into my palm like crayon shavings.

Water smearing into my face beneath the pressure of my finger tips as I move it out of my eyes and close them.

The red blue violent pink and then green light filling the enclosure.

Sweat falling upward from my inverted legs.

Sex level sweaty.

Sex level sticky.

Contorting creatively in a space that hugs.

Moving my head to the side of my shoulder, wandering into the corridors of my thoughts unbothered.

Becoming slippery before salt lifts me weightless.

Giving me permission to float away.

Assured that I can come back as quickly as my eyes will flutter open.

Hearing the chimes inviting me to stand.

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Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.