Performance Yoga

It’s hard to write about others
without crossing discretion boundaries.
Can I even write about myself without apology?

If I want to seduce
you, reader, with my pen,
I’ll at least have to be fun to watch!

Went up to my attic
and did my yoga just now,
first laying out my amulets—

ceramic female meditating figure;
rose-quartz sharp-nosed ID (I mean Latin for Thing);
amethyst Satva not really a superego, more

like all those fallen knights at the end
of Childe Roland;
orange feldspar Dhamma fronting the deeps;

green topaz Buddha resting
sometimes on their back with their feet in the air,
sometimes on their side or forehead.

Start Child pose, usually—asshole
and feet aligned, touching the mat
with the bone between my nose and brow that

a punch would break.
Up to Downward Dog, then walking
my hands to my right foot,

left foot high behind. And now I lift
with my whole hip till my hands are above my head
and I’m balanced,

left foot pressed to my right knee. And now I bend
slightly and bring my left foot back
so that I can hold it in my hand like

a tender bird, a turtle dove,
chuckling and cooing and trembling against my fingers.
Two arms full of fluffy chicken!

And now I let go and do the same drill
on the other foot. Next, I press my 10-lb barbells
from below waist to above head twenty times—

surprisingly difficult, even after all this time!
I usually finish with Sun Salutations,
each ending with putting my anus on one heel

and stretching both hands to the opposite foot.
Happy Baby, on my back, grasping feet, rocking.
Bridge, groin high, letting my butt down slowly.

last ten breaths in Corpse—
each breath lasting
forever