The Sag

The hammock pulls me toward its center,

my weight wrong somehow, distributed

across ropes that dig where they shouldn't.

My shoulder blade pressed against fabric.

I keep sliding.

The sky above breaks into pieces

through the diamond gaps—blue fragments

I could count if I weren't focused

on not falling through to the ground.

Someone took a photo of this,

thinking it looks like rest.

I'm still trying to believe

that's what I looked like—

settled, safe, staying still.

But the hammock won't let me.

My body keeps finding the sag,

the place where it all gives way.