The good-looking one, the one in need, the one that almost was
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Like the Turin shroud with
its image of godliness,
her yoga mat holds
the tattoo of her body, each pose
immortalized by a particular
indentation, a stain of perspiration.
I’ve slept without remorse or redemption
in beds that still held
the shapes of former lovers.
The sky is gunmetal gray &
getting darker. Today I want
to downward-dog on that mat
just to inhale the scent of her —
how I might howl. So much
of love is imagination: its over-
activity, its over-ambition, its over-the-top
hopes. Is this what it means to be
a person of faith?
She practices breath & posture, knows
the variations of each. Science tells us
one version of the story, scripture
another. When she’s done,
she rolls her mat like a scroll
& sets it aside, her skin mottled,
sweaty, her final meditation
a white fire on her tongue.