After the sun falls,

I curl into the soft folds.

Suddenly, there.  She's warm and tiny;

she purs.  She's so close her downy fur sticks to my lips.

Her kingdom beneath my chin.

I wait.

I listen.

I wish.

I read.

Push

Two angry men, large, face each other, chest to chest, loud words, and louder, one pushes the other toward the door, a broad slap on the chest, palms flat, hard. Push.

In the empty white harsh Antarctic winter, the seal’s slick crown emerges from the tiny liquid black circle.  Mouth wide, wide as possible, he grates his teeth against the ice, whipping his smooth dark head back and forth, back and forth, desperate for oxygen, fighting to keep his portal of life open  . . . open. Open?  Again lift, and grate away the encroaching freeze.  Push.

The concept: “push-up”. The reality: flat down straining, wheezing, wiggling, reaching, tense as a rusty iron rod, head to toe.  But nothing.  No lift.  Face on the floor, hot moist breath building on my cheeks. Push.

The company crumbling beyond my myopic gaze, opportunity drifting while I fumble, she leans toward me and gently says, “ . . . you need to push.”

I cringe, cold and tight inside.  I stare into her still eyes. Is it willpower, striving?  Is it meanness, violence, pain?  I am reaching, wondering.

Push.