Jawahira bathes

Jawahira is bathing stream side
under a canopy of elms
while insisting you wear billowing pants
to ensure a modest afternoon.

her straight spine
a latticed shadow into heaven,
dappled by breezes
and leafy peaks of sun.

a cervical ladder
where salmon might leap
into a certain mortal spawn.

this is not the yoga
of the fortunate:
a pedestrian chakra
opening and quotidian.

we have gone from teal to purple,
from spleen to shining spleen:
we could have been solar pretzels
if the ovens only knew.

she raises mocha elbows-
braids sleek wet hair
into a black lattice of steps
that rise from sacrum to nape:

a comb oriented reverse Kama
that brings sweet olive into view
with undried beads pretending dew.

she, at the lapping edge, kneels nude
heels pressed into a shrine
of pearly opulence:

her breasts shimmer in the trout trembling pool.