I found
My mat,
Today,
Squeezed
Between
Housework
And workwork
In a space
Too small
And too quick
To expect
The twists
And bridges
And wheels
That unfolded there.
I smiled,
At the end,
Folding forward
In thanks
For the unexpected
That shows up
In the in-betweens.

Wandering,
Ragged,
And worn,
I stumble on
To my mat.
And reaching
Past its
Rubber edges
I gather
The pieces
Of me
Strewn about -
Knees and elbows,
Tips and toes,
A bit of flesh,
An ***** or two -
Each finding
Its place
So I can find mine
Before sunrise.

Some days
(Especially those that echo with
“Move,” and
“Hurry,” and
“Do, do, do... but don’t!...”)
Those days
I may just sit,
And breathe,
And come back to sitting
And breathing
And if it takes
Every moment
Of my practice
To arrive,
Still,
I find myself there.

“My dear,”
I start.
But where
From here?
I search
For magic words
Unspoken,
The ones
With the power
To guide him home.
And with the power
To remind you it’s his.
But the “come home” words
Are worn and weak
From use.
Like I am worn and weak
And used
To the way things have become.
And even alone
With my pencil
I fall into silence.

The most recent
Day one.
Your stillness
Thrashes.
Your silence
Screams.
And I hope
This stays a one.
I don’t dare hope
That there’s a two.
And I wish you would struggle out loud.

I’ve been afraid
Before
But always
Of a thing
Always
In a space.
These days though,
Fear circles my skull,
No matter what.
No matter where.
And I often forget how to breathe.

“Because you drink too much,”
I say
Matter of factly
With giggles in my voice.
You do not giggle.
And as you pull your hand away
I watch something else
Slip from reach
And suddenly
I am alone.