lights dim new age music
spilling softly from speakers in the ceiling
i push the small of my back
into the purple mat
i open my eyes see Belle’s head
suspended over my face
she sniffs my mouth whiskers brush
my nose sniffs again as though
she can smell the rot of grief as i exhale
wretched gloom won’t leave
my head even while stretching
twisting holding proud warrior
or downward facing dog
breathing long breaths counting slowly
to ten with each new posture
segueing seamlessly from pose to pose
even in yoga there is no peace
(he’s dead, you fool, he’s dead)
i sit legs crossed hands folded
between my breasts as though in prayer
chin down i mutter namaste &
wish i could disappear
© 2010 cj Schlottman
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