My knee locks
when it should be straight
My hips shut up shop
when they should be flung open
“Left foot forward
press your right hand to the mat.”
But the only voice I hear
Is the whale of my thigh
as fiercely cold
As a beginning-of-summer ocean
We try again
you take my weight
the wail becomes a murmur
Then a whisper
That I am a burden
I begin to learn
Of my own lightness.
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Editor: Dana Gornall
Photo credit: Flickr Creative Commons
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