Bernadette Geyer's poems have appeared in Oxford American, North American Review, The Midwest Quarterly, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. Her first full-length collection, The Scabbard of Her Throat, will be published by The Word Works in 2013.
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Corpse Pose
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.
My Life's Purpose
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.