He kisses me before he goes. While I, still dozing, half-asleep, laugh and rub my face against the sueded surface of the sheets, thinking it’s him I touch, his skin beneath my hands, my body curving in to meet his body there. I never hear him leave. But I believe he shuts the bedroom door, as though unsure if he should change his mind, pull off his boots, crawl beneath the blankets left behind, his hand a heat against my breast, our heart rates slowing into rest. Perhaps all good-byes should whisper like a piece of silk— and then the quick surprise of waking, alone except for the citrus ghost of his cologne.
Sun Salutations with Betrayal and Departure
Although this room is full of moving, sweating people—all of us lunging forward or folding ourselves in tangled shapes, obedient to Sanksrit names we’re told mean “mountain,” “plank,” “dog”— downward facing, I feel a sudden anger. After, I talk with a woman. For years I’ve called her a friend. We lean damp against the mirror. If there were a Sanskrit name for what I am to her, it would be following flower, the loyalty of a blossom that opens beside its colleague on the branch. We talk of our work. And I sense, the way spines know the limits of their curvature, that she has lied to me. I feel the places where the teacher touched my face with oil while I lay on the mat like a sleeper, insensate. Months from now, my friend will explain the truth is a limb that can bend, words too a flexibility, contortion learned through daily practice. What else should I say?—that soon others will try to break me like a small bone in the foot. Soon she will not place a hand on the hunched sadness of my shoulder. I will be left to learn the correct pose of warrior for myself, heels aligned, belly tightened as if waiting for a punch. If there were a Sanskrit name for what she will do by doing nothing to help me, it would be passive river. It would be silent moon of cowardice. It would be kneeling hyena with averted gaze. Or, put unbeautifully, she could have warned that others were trying to hurt me. And there are injuries no stretching can undo— we live with the twinge in the back. Months from now, I won’t say good-bye, my leaving not marked by a mallet dragged on the edge of a singing bowl, harmonics emerging from the empty slope of the vessel. The divine in me won’t bow to the divine in her. There will be no pressing together of palms.