Racer

Obsidian shines.
Your skin soaks
in noon day's sun.
Your body lies
looped three times,
black and thick as my leg—
a misplaced garden hose
on Papa's emerald stairs.
I fling the screen door wide.
Before I step down,      
you unfurl yourself—
a question mark, a rippled
into dark, Tuftonboro pines.

— Nancy Tupper Ling