My friend talked me into Bikram yoga
Don’t even get me started about that guy
I didn’t know before I arrived
That the class has a script
A series of descriptions for poses
That never changes

I was folded over
Ready to barf on my bare feet
Peering at the tiny window in the studio door
And dreaming of my escape
When the instructor told me to
“Put my exactly forehead to my exactly knee”

I stared at my knee
My head about two feet away from it

It was all I could do in the world
Not to tell this bag of bones
To stick her exactly thumb up her exactly ass

I careened to see my friend’s reaction
And fell onto my slick moss-squish mat

They had indeed, succeeded in matching their exactly parts
Because they’re fucking athletes

I however, am an imposter
One that wants off this boat

I’m tempted, after my fall to take up
My sweaty swamp-mat
And tie it to my neck like a cape
Throw up double middle fingers
And dance out of the room

But I stay, because I’ve been challenged

When class lets out
I explode into eye rolls and exasperated exclamations
“Can you believe those people?”

They loved it
So intense
So detoxifying

I can’t take anything seriously, their faces say
And they’re right

Tonight, you are sitting up in my bed
Our usual routine
An hour minimum
Talking about respective past
And other together-future
You talk about the new house
I stare at your eyebrows
Echo your expressions with my face
Your legs are bent
And because it feels so delightfully within reach
Touch my exactly forehead
To your exactly knee

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