Yoga came early to the world. The outfits came much later.
2. Womb
It is 1952. My mother—my about-to-be mother—is 43, awaiting me. She takes yoga classes, long before prenatal yoga and spandex.
3. West Franklin Street, Chapel Hill, NC
My mother, in her 60s, adores Hannah, her considerably younger yoga teacher. Hannah is mild, gentle, with a long braid down her back. I accompany my mother to a handful of classes. I’ve injured first my foot, then my knee, and cannot dance for some weeks, so I’m on an extended visit to my mother.
I strain to prove myself well versed in stretching, in body elegance, even though my body is tight and somewhat unyielding. I glance over at my mother on her blanket, and I see her wide, flat bottom, her narrow hips resting in her hands, and her misshapen feet—the result of surgeries almost 20 years earlier—angled up over her face as she practices shoulder stand.… ...continue reading
Tobacco-stained fingernails dug into Radha’s flesh.
She started to protest, but he squeezed her wrist. Her words shrank into a yelp that bubbled from her lips. She didn’t understand why he was so angry; then again, he never needed a reason.
She struggled against his grip, and he twisted her wrist as hard as he could. There was a muffled crack, and her vision went white.
Radha woke with tears in her eyes. She glanced around and realized that she had fallen asleep on the couch in her living room. She dried her eyes and massaged her throbbing wrist. It should have healed by now, but it still ached whenever a storm was coming.
I doff my heels, unbutton my collar, and eat at my picture window.
My last promotion, they were surprised when I chose this 5th-floor office. A non-corner-office; furniture outmoded; and so low! I said: ‘I have acrophobia.’
I couldn’t say: ‘I want to look, one last year, out of the eyes of the beast.’ This picture window looks into the slum across the road.
The men are coming home for lunch. From where? From that corner. Beyond that corner, my picture window doesn’t see. The men are mostly autorickshaw drivers.
Some of the young men, who’ve acquired broken English, work as shop assistants. They don’t come home for lunch.… ...continue reading
The Smoke is me, Burning by Constantine Blintzios, is the story of a family surviving on the edge of a pine forest in Harmswood, Arkansas. Crops have been corrupted by an outbreak of parasites in the rye. Livestock and buzzards alike are dying, so decay is left to spread unchecked. Blake and Jamie Ackerman have grown up on the lip of these woods. Raised by an alcoholic mother and a Vietnam-war veteran uncle, they have grown up believing in gods beyond the chicken-wire fence of their backyard, gods that steal children from their beds. When they are little, Jamie sees something in the woods and blinds his brother in one eye to keep him from seeing it, too.… ...continue reading
Picture sky, its timeless entirety: north, south, east, west, directions encompassing life beneath it, existence through it, eternal bird species know best, returning flock after flock, if not driven to extinction, the air, everywhere, ground of hunt.
This horizon, for now, does not seem to have that, bluing more pearlescent with less coal smoke & oily carbon exhaust poking ozone holes for blazing rays in separate glory, shaft by shaft. Behind that the perfectly burning circular sun grants photosynthesis or fires wild as if humanity has nothing to do with this present as early on stoves were for wood & the heaping of peat, the past air so pure lungs sung with oxygen glistening from valleys and glades, deserts and alps.
Imagine this kitchen window here having such painterly sheen, all interior surfaces dust-mote gleaming to the richness of shadows while in close-up particular hands on a bread board pound & shape dough.… ...continue reading
