by Jill Hemming

We hover over numbered rocks,
seeking cleavage
to match diagrams
in the textbook.

“These are the bosom
of the earth”
our professor cries,
like a faroff bird.

We strain for textures,
hold them to our eyes;
I line them up again and again
like convicts
with digits on their chests.

But Kerry handles them
like Easter sugar eggs.
She understands the equilibrium
of a rock,

how it sits flat,
down deep and still.
In dance class
she lies within a circle,
feels the floor breathe
and the ceiling move down to her
like a lover.
(She keeps waiting to flatten).