LOVE

The only position I could ever do correctly
in yoga class was the corpse. I would
close my eyes and collapse on the floor and
the teacher wouldn’t have to shove
an elbow, knee, or ankle into a place it couldn’t—
or wouldn’t—go until one day she told us

to stand on one leg and I was about to
fall when someone to my left touched my
shoulder with a finger; a woman to my right
did the same—the barest touch—and I
touched them, and eight women on eight feet
stood in a circle and not one of us fell.

And I recall the sunrise you and I got
up in the dark to view at Bryce Canyon, a bitter
cold morning—a dozen strangers, we
slowly massed together, arms linked, until we
were one amorphous whole; then the sun
rose, like a pastor blessing his flock, and we were

warm, like today, when even the smallest puff
of wind will send me off-balance and spinning into a void...
and you, with a single word, hold me up.

by Nancy Means Wright                   

Published in The Comstock Review

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