I. Savasana | Corpse Pose
Bulbed women glisten.
Sweet balloons, static cling,
to the center. We haven’t realized
how malleable we can be.
There is warrior into goddess.
Little creeks swaying
down our backs. The room is full
of puffed breath, full blow
of anticipation lingering,
pressing against one another.
We become fallen pine, fronds
and sticky sap, sinking.
I imagine the full blush of an orange,
navel widening, peeling the skin
to reveal a glowing sphere.
II. Uttanasana | Standing Forward Bend
Widening women ache.
Outside, thick autumn clouds,
rain drawing night. Brows furrow,
windshield wiping sweat, our arms
and digits swinging into place, black bears
with distended bellies, mat slipping.
Abdomens sway open, overripe blisters.
One woman has missed her due date
by miles, her gravity closer to Styx.
I cannot—these two words pulsing
beneath my heart bones, black splotches
before my eyes, not just rain clouds.
Here the windowsill mocks me—
I could just lean into it, sweaty hand
mirroring sweaty hand, topple through
into the night, bare branches,
slick pavement, splotch and blister burst.
III. Balasana | Child’s Pose
At the gates of my hips, you are tumbling, resting.
Tumbling, resting. Slight propel of legs
on the ultrasound screen, your knees
knobbing, pumping, breathing in and out
of the folds of uterus, and we search
for something we already know—
we call it bicycling. But you are at will,
freely stirring amniotic detritus,
you are that willow across the pond,
whose fronds bicycle the autumn air.