Not polished, but pretty. I think.
Upon Attending a Yoga Class with My Husband
It’s a basic class, involving blankets and a dozen grey heads
on pillows, and soon he’s asleep, snoring slightly. I reach over
and tap his ribcage, and we giggle in the back of the room,
our bellies trembling, the lights low.
When we reach to twist our imaginary lightbulbs on and off,
I watch his hands, concentrate on them instead of my breathing,
how long his fingers seem, how deep his palms, how shocking
that he has a body, that he exists separate from me,
from how I think of him as husband, from his laugh, his job,
his methods for loading the dishwasher and taking out the trash,
even the way he touches me when I sleep.
We’re on the floor moving like elephants, like cows, like our cats,
like the very deliberate and slow. His left hand stutters
when he realizes it should be his right. It feels like kindergarten,
like somehow the two of us, who are eleven years apart,
have skipped backwards for an instant, joined each other
on the magic rug for stretching and naptime.
Then we’re standing and lifting our arms high-high over our heads
and I can see his belly button, his small belly button, and he is
so young and I am so young and we’re both imagining we’re floating
in shiny bright bubbles of light.