and if the body will not move, what then? we see inertia
in the same unfolding mathematical spiral as force diagrams,
but have no words for the gravity pinning limbs to a mattress,
the anguish filling lungs that, somehow, still breathe.
when i was a child my elders exhorted me against the story
of juan tamad, sitting under a bayabas tree, head tipped up
to the moving shadows of leaves, open-mouthed in waiting
for some eager fruit to fall. i see myself under the same tree.
inexorable sunlight stitches through the air: g = 9.8m/s^2.
scrawls on my limbs: a body at rest will remain at rest…
oh, but external force! i draw my knees to my chin, teeth set,
eyes blotting out
the eventual fall.