The Levitating Woman
She levitates above her bed all night.
Doing an occasional smooth rotation
over the pristine white,
toes pointed ballerina-straight.
A clever housekeeper these days:
doesn’t need to change the sheets.
An exertion never again necessary.
Warmth is not a consideration.
Comfort is her self-spelled float.
Empty air blooms her spine,
moulds to her lightened limbs.
No longer fitful in darkness.
No ruffled coverlet strangling,
No pillow-rock lumps to punch.
No insomniac tussles.
Humming her dead breath,
she turns, easy now.