A proper yoga session always ends

with the Corpse Pose. This will be your

final rest—lie back on the cool floor,

maintain a modicum of distance between

your straightened legs, arms stiff along

your sides, palms facing upward. Breathe

 

naturally. With each exhaled breath,

feel the stress ooze from the ends

of your toes—stress rivering along

its solemn way, taking with it all of your

aches, that pinch you've felt between

your shoulder blades. Note the floor's

 

stern pressure against your back. The floor

mocks your form as your tempered breaths

smudge the hair-thin boundary between

serenity and the onset of sleep. In the end,

it doesn't really matter whether you're

awake or not. The subtleties of a long

 

silence are meant to navigate you along

the path to peace. Consider this floor

the illustrious yellow brick road to your

salvation. When you remember to breathe,

think tornado, think witch, how ends,

in time, often justify their means. Between

 

you and me, the only difference between

Oz and Nirvana exists in the curve along

your lover's decompressing spine as he ends

his day in guiltless slumber on the floor

in front of the television. His breath

steady and humid in his repose. Your

 

main regret should be that, for now, you're

stuck in this Corpse Pose, sweat between

your wilting breasts. Remember to breathe.

As you continue your cerebral progress along

this road to inner peace, imagine the floor

ossifying itself to the stark, exposed ends

 

of your bones. When class ends, rise from the floor—

it's a long way back to your lover who now

inserts his worn self between your bedsheets. Breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

As I reached my hand into the garbage disposal—

one eye on the switch as if it would leap to life

on its own—I realized I would be happy

knowing my life's purpose

 

could be to serve as a warning to others.

And I realized that I want to be that woman

in front of you in line at the drugstore

on Friday night, baby

 

on my hip, buying a six-pack of cheap beer,

condoms, and pregnancy tests. I want

to be the one who licks the batter

from the spoon and lives

 

to tell. Let me be the jackass on TV who plays

chicken with a car and loses. I want to be

the cold sweat you wake with, the word

of warning you hear

 

whispered in your mother's voice. Let me be

the hesitation in your step, the canary

in the coal mine. I want to be the one you

shake your head at

 

in disbelief, wondering Why the hell would

anyone... I want to save you from yourself.

Let me do that. Let me be your savior.

Let me be your warning.