Falling in love in a
Yoga Class
the only hamstrung
male in the class,
a old creaking oak
among willows,
I have fallen among
a troupe of acrobats.
looselimbed loslyf
the women raise a hand
north past ear island
in line with shoulder
to salute sun
while they slide the other
down south to shinland.
I tendon tense,
point my palm
as far as the door.
its companion reaches
just below kneeland
kopje
before it runs out of stretch.
their angles are acute,
mine obtuse.
six hundred and something
muscles rise Atlantis like
from the forgotten deep.
mine are drum skin,
lactic acid, theirs spandex.
they are like the dolls with
elastic threaded limbs
so you can turn the
legs and arms backwards.
our teacher is a reincarnated
rubber tree snake, swimming
through the S bend in a river
flowing though
body lithe in line
she raises her heel
to salute the moon,
names the asanas
evoking
levitation, lotus pose,
tucked toe yogis,
incense air
and snake charmers.
Eve’s dance with
snake energy dazzles
this Adam, gritting teeth
in a rib stretch locust pose,
trying to prevent the fall,
in awe of the double
jointedness of these women
and their pelvic and wrist swivel.
after another - what sounds
like trickyasana -
we come to stillness
hands together. bow.
this pose comes easy.
body tingles.
glands suffuse,
hormones grin.
I fall over in love
with the grace
of women’s joints and
my limb limitation.
in supple Namaste
we enter Nirvana.