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Worry Yoga

A sheer pleat of hamstrung distraction,

the heart opens, says the teacher.

Don’t push so hard with the eyes—

let the world see you—this while touching

my fontanel as a cruciform jet

scores a corset of cloud filling the high window.

In the studio, on whose account

do I recall myself again, scumble

of vexation in a child’s pose.

Is it masochistic to think

while following the open hand as it traces

lost houses, loves, states of mind?

I know you feel them, too, the holes

slipped into the torso—sorry, story.

Palms pressed, I unbend,

follow the vertebral way,

hold an “o” before my ribcage,

space the size of the green stone,

marbled lode from a land of sorrow.

The burr in worry, “r’s” like hitchhiker seeds,

arcing lures that bend, twist away,

then float slowly home. Freedom is the first

and our last urge. It breathes us.

I adjust, one needing

such juxtapositions.

At prayer I slipped the cool mineral

between my gown & heart. Stippled.

from OrexiaFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2017
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Lisa Russ Spaar Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.