Yoga

for Melody

The teacher guides their breath
into a depth his doesn’t like
at first. He lets her make
his lungs plump up, then

lead his body into Downward
Facing Dog. The class has seen
what her body does; but his—his
just isn’t made the same. Her glance

argues, All you lack is discipline.
Why? Those years in school,
outwitting bullies, making grades,
escaping into books—didn’t his body

bear him like a mule on its back?
Suddenly, tremors invade his arms—
but the teacher’s fierce. “Hold it. Hold it.”
He breathes into his shaky limbs

because she says he can . . . breathes
(it hits him) because she breathes
so beautifully. It must be her
he wants to breathe in! “Good,”

she announces. “Child’s Pose.”
He collapses with the rest, folded
around his secret. Or do the others
sense how intently he listens

as her naked feet brush the bare
wood floor? Now she halts, inches
from his tucked head. “Just relax,”
she says. And he tries. He tries!

“And don’t forget to breathe.”