Sunday Yoga

by | Jun 13, 2018 | Poetry

We’re not balancing or breathing. Rubber-necked, we clip
side glances to see who most resembles a crane, bow-backed cat,
slipped disc in progress. Outside the rain rolls calf-deep
through the parking lot. There’s no hurricane here, just too much
condo construction on old sewer lines. I try not to think
of the position we’d call corpse in the river, washed-out,
or grieving. A sluice-band of gurgling plays deep
Appalachian blues from the pipes overhead. We go
to sleep like children, limp and dragged. We go
to sleep like women from another race, one with
stiffer penalties and fines. I feel like grace hasn’t draped
her arm over me. In the humidity, I go cardigan-free
to the car, through the rain, letting whatever animal
is in me tonight open her throat in my throat, so we are both
drinking & fighting the drink. We are both elaborate
& simple beasts. The stretch pops back into line.
Our bodies, wrenched, constrict & put themselves
where we originally found them. In the car, humidity
sings its deep, mildewing song. Lord I married me a wife,
she gave me trouble all my life. That’s who she is,
that muskrat, scrabbling for dear life. That house-mouse
with my heart-beat, contracting back into her ice-cube
shape, waving her soup-bone hands, the boughs
of her family tree.
SUNDAY YOGA by Hannah Craig

Photo used under CC.

About The Author


Hannah Craig lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of This History that Just Happened (Parlor Press, 2017). Her work has recently appeared in journals like Copper Nickel, Occulum, Mississippi Review, and the New England Review of Books.