Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Yes

I am here
once again.
The eagle flies across
my window
frozen
wings outstretched.
He wants to get to work
and so do I.
Work.
What does that mean?
For so long now I thought work meant forcing,
demanding,
pushing,
the whipping of flesh.
In yoga, I push too hard.
Legs spread,
I reach forward
and feel my groin rip,
hips pop,
shoulders crack,
as if I were ripping in two.
I am in pain.
My face contorts like it were made of play-doh.
lips to one side,
eyes squinted shut.
I look around the room
to see if anyone else
looks the way I do.
The woman to my right
has her chest on the floor
and nothing but calm on her face.
Oh, yeah,
we aren't supposed to look
at anyone else.
No comparisons.
Our attention is to be on ourselves
and our breath.
Where is my breath?
I search for it,
forgetting it is always there.
I force myself to breathe slower.
In, out, in, out.
To let myself be.
To let myself feel
the wood floor beneath me.
I always think it has to be so hard.
Life.
Work.
Love.
I forget I don't have to push.
I can sit with my legs spread
and let it come to me.