Even on mute,
**** blares like air raid sirens
when roommates are home.
And as I look her up and down
up and down
up and down
suddenly I’m fearful my skull
isn’t soundproof, that the new age music
will be drowned out by the ****-smack
of our naked bodies colliding in my head.
I avoid eye contact, her figure burned into my retinas,
*** in the air taking it in down *******.
The class chants Ohm
but I only manage to moan ohmygod.

Perfect is such a strong word
but her designer yoga wear is a second skin
hugging in all the right places
a body that only has the right places
and when she bends over into a forward fold
there are no secrets.
Is it Bikram in here or is it just me?
Sweat flooding off my forehead, ujjiya out of control
as I struggle and creak from pose to pose
she flows into effortlessly. We
need to get tangled in each other,
move our asanas from the mat to the sheets.
If only I were Shiva, merely
to have extra hands to run over her flawless form.
I would give my salutations to the sun daily
if only for this view.
I may not be in love with yoga,
but **** do I love yoga class.
Namaste.