The edge of distress
Index fingers to thumbs, hands on the knees
we heave together in Kapalabhati.
I have come here often enough
it may be brewing coffee, shifting the car
to drive. At first my wingspan
was the measure of safety—
how far over my neighbor’s
sticky mat did my fingers spread
in Ardha Chandrasana? To touch a stranger
that way felt like a belt wrapped tight
around the thing meant to open me.
This expansive chest, expensive
chest. Nevermind the men I’ve taken in
my body I’ve known for less than a day.
I almost always drive
80 on 280. Teach alignment
to goals like buoys
in a future sea we’ll one day sail. Let’s go!
my mantra, we have to move.
How surprised I’ve been that to stay put
has become less relic
more passageway. Breathe in, 1, 2, 3,
out, 1, 2, 3. At first each movement flashed
like tableaux, there was no redress
for wrongs I couldn’t yet know. There
was no flow. The illusion of flow
and the edge of distress in each
new pose. Go vogue I’d thought
be rouge. We are the generation
of mindfulness, watching
how we watch, pilgrims to the
split screen and the end goal of
peace in the present moment.
We try to stop trying
and on lucky days we do.
When we reach out in
I think of budgets and rights of way
I wait for it to be over, counting breaths
1, 2, 3. But when it is, I forget
the suffering for just long enough
to know I must do it again.