TIPPY TOP

so much of life spent in the top,
not just the top half but the tippy top,
like 4 year old Maeve calls anything she urgently desires
(tippy top pancake, tippy top side of the couch).
ever since I started caring more about
what was outside of the closet than within,
the tippy top of me has been set in a Mode of Modes. 
the closet, its important layers, baby pink robe with the
textured orchids, brown velvet skirt, white shawl from Poland
with the green loop embroidery – and my tape player and colored blocks,
stashed behind the waterfall in dark dust warmth.
out in the world the top has always mattered, but back then
i merged with lowness easily. now the top of since
spins, swirling nauseous lazy susan, sometimes spilling
riders. to even get just a little low is so hard,
neck, chest, stomach, pelvis, legs like strangers.
the body worker who lives in a house with a view
of the mountain pressed my legs to feel
the tender baseball crater,  all the weather it has weathered.
like how it might feel if the actual organ of your heart
was clutched. would kill you, too vital for handling. 
for years the crater's pits have eclipsed the fruit,
and it's clear how much was calcified, which tracks.
the top being so top heavy, and the rest of me so restless,
trying to travel up and down
and through, to get back to
the ground.