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Learning the smell of my sweat
3 days a week.
Lungs, unattended balloons at the mouth
of a helium tank
filling with the dull sobering sweetness not
of Secret or Dial or Dior, until
lungs, mother's kitchen sink sponge
squeezed dry of last night's
smoke and frost and sex.
Dew-like drops my traveling companions
forming small creeks
seeping down the rolling hill of each calf,
the sharp slate of my chest,
forming small pools in the two fault-line crevices
of my two straining shoulders.
Hesitant to gaze down,
resistant to hear pools' reflections, if instead I could
stare up at the soft white lights twinkling
just above the sweaty statues on platforms of
purple, blue, grey, green, brown,
beside
behind
the flushed pulsing mannequin
that is the me in the mirror.
Dimmed lights, lowered lids,
only our bodies, our soaked spandex and our laboring confrontational mutations:
Marcus Aurelius, my pulse insists on pounding in my ears even here.
Carla says
something about
balance, and
the edge,
verbs swallowed by the humidity racing
in and out of my nostrils, a train
passing the platform as you tell him goodbye
for the last time, so that you have to say
goodbye at least once again.
More than breath in lungs
needing breath vibrating cochlea,
proof of life when your world
aches to stand silently still at the edge
in dandayamana-janushirasana for just one
out of ninety minutes.
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