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.