Jocelyn Zoe

Posted on Jun 20, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

She does all things right
But even if she didn’t,
the mat would still welcome her to yoga—
stretching,
fainting
beneath her form—
dizzy—
many days, forlorn.
But each touch of her hand
And bend of knee—
Each curl of a toe
brings him back a little more.

She does nothing wrong
But even if she did,
wrong would suddenly be right.
You’d see,
Religions would rewrite
their texts—
Day renamed Night.
Starting at her topmost feature
they’d start down
assigning letters to all her
fleshy parts
Ending at the ground.

And they’d write a song of passion, mirth.
A song commemorating
her happy birth.
A song of Summer and Spring
And Autumn.
Of those they’d sing.
But of Winter too.
For there’d be days when she’d feel sad.. ):
days, forlorn.
But if in those times, she reads this,
I hope it
brings her back a little more.