![]() And there are injuries no stretching can undo- we live with the twinge in the back. Or, put unbeautifully, she could have warned that others were trying to hurt me. It would be kneeling hyena with averted gaze. If there were a Sanskrit name for what she will do by doing nothing to help me, it would be passive river. I will be left to learn the correct pose of warrior for myself, heels aligned, belly tightened as if waiting for a punch. Soon she will not place a hand on the hunched sadness of my shoulder. What else should I say?-that soon others will try to break me like a small bone in the foot. Months from now, my friend will explain the truth is a limb that can bend, words too a flexibility, contortion learned through daily practice. I feel the places where the teacher touched my face with oil while I lay on the mat like a sleeper, insensate. And I sense, the way spines know the limits of their curvature, that she has lied to me. If there were a Sanskrit name for what I am to her, it would be following flower, the loyalty of a blossom that opens beside its colleague on the branch. Although this room is full of moving, sweating people-all of us lunging forward or folding ourselves in tangled shapes, obedient to Sanksrit names we're told mean "mountain," "plank," "dog"- downward facing, I feel a sudden anger. ![]()
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