Suspension

The lady on the phone screen said

find your center, but I found the roots

of the maple instead. It was supposed to be—

it was supposed to be a cocoon, a swaying bit of peace,

not this frantic wrestling with a nylon net.

I'm face-down now. The dirt tastes like

old pennies and wet mulch.

My left ankle is still caught in the weave,

and when I finally crawl out—if I crawl out—

my calves are a mess of red squares,

angry little grill marks from the rope.

Self-care is just another way to get hurt,

honestly.