• Flux Magazine

"The Floor" by Halle Dana

The pattern of the hardwood floor

has imprinted on my cheek. 

My atoms and the floor’s atoms, 

rubbing up against each other, 

keeping me warm as I lay here. 

When the waves pull the sand 

out from under your feet. 

That slight little sink,

the tiny little buried space and 

how often I’ve wished I could live there. 

Or when you dig as a child, 

unhindered—clumps of earth 

leaving behind the damp dirt— 

smoothing it’s sides with your hands

and how good it was to touch deep. 

When you press a plant 

firmly into its place in the dirt. 

When the roots find the soil;

Like a sun salutation 

pointed down to the earth's core. 

The smell of the cellar, 

the coolness from underneath. 

The tunnels of gophers,

connected deep under sight. 

Damp dark, a hug from the ground. 

Being buried under sand,

up to my neck. 

Digging so deep that the ocean 

presses up to meet me. 

Upside down, right side up.

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