Sun Salutations with Betrayal and Departure

Although this room is full of moving,sweating people—all of us lunging forwardor folding ourselves in tangled shapes,obedient to Sanksrit names we're toldmean "mountain," "plank," "dog"—downward facing, I feel a sudden anger.After, I talk with a woman.For years I've called her a friend.We lean damp against the mirror.If there were a Sanskrit name for what I amto her, it would be following flower,the loyalty of a blossom that opensbeside its colleague on the branch.We talk of our work. And I sense, the wayspines know the limits of their curvature,that she has lied to me. I feel the placeswhere the teacher touched my face with oilwhile I lay on the mat like a sleeper, insensate.Months from now, my friend will explainthe truth is a limb that can bend,words too a flexibility, contortionlearned through daily practice.What else should I say?—that soonothers will try to break me like a small bonein the foot. Soon she will not place a handon the hunched sadness of my shoulder.I will be left to learn the correct poseof warrior for myself, heels aligned,belly tightened as if waiting for a punch.If there were a Sanskrit name for what she will do by doing nothingto help me, it would be passive river.It would be silent moon of cowardice.It would be kneeling hyena with averted gaze.Or, put unbeautifully, she could have warnedthat others were trying to hurt me.And there are injuries no stretching can undo—we live with the twinge in the back.Months from now, I won't say good-bye,my leaving not marked by a malletdragged on the edge of a singing bowl,harmonics emerging from the emptyslope of the vessel. The divinein me won't bow to the divine in her.There will be no pressing together of palms.