183: Handstand

It's in the hands. It's in the feet. The fingers, the toes. It's like what's-her-face said in what's-it-called, about nature and beauty and madness, that we have to stand on our hands to be rooted. I have large palms. Short fingers compared to it, but longer than most. I curl them until the tips touch. Toes don't do it. They're too short. They can't dig into the soil and curl around grass roots and tree roots and mingle with invisible fungi like fingers can. They can't even touch the feet they're attached to. But they spread wide as they face the sky, opening like leaves on an albino tree, faulty since birth, that relies on its roots to bring it all it needs to survive.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.