Setu Bandha Sarvangasana: Bridge Pose
Yoga means yoke, to connect as a bridge connects disconnected land
between spirit and body because the brain pushes pain aside
like a fascist on a propaganda-inspired deleting spree.
Meanwhile, your body harbors agony: organs, muscles,
vessels become burial plots, graves trapping trauma,
grasping a ripped photo, a dropped glass.
Invisibly fragile passion evaporates into air after
final words are spoken, but the body holds onto lost pieces,
even as a home you shared with a man you loved disappears
into your rearview mirror as you drive away.
we mature burred against
the world, stabbing prying, forceful
fingertips. We open haltingly to our
surroundings, oxblood nuts tumbling pearl-like
from squirrel-furred depths. Thick shells, even then, protect
our yellow, soft insides.
Russian Roulette With Toy Revolvers
A bar. The red in Tim’s mother’s glass
disappears. Hit me again, she says.
A bar. Tim shall look after himself.
A blur. The tire swing replaced every summer
wets the muddy ground with its rain
soaked shadow. Tim blurs away in
his eyes. I am late. I should be there
with those underaged beers I promised.
We have toy revolvers that look like
a heady mix of black and clotted blood.
I wish heaven was a big ol’ splashpad
Everybody playing with smiles
What’s the opposite of being color blind?
Seeing your wholeness, I guess
Can you imagine whole people?
No scars, no chips, nothing making you lesser
Just running through the water
And never running dry . . .