by Nathalie Goykhman
Before the yoga class begins,
I greet the students at the door.
The trappings of their daily lives
get tucked away in cubby shelves:
bicycle helmets and high heels,
construction boots and briefcases.
Some shuffle in still on their phones,
still whispering instructions while
they juggle coffee cups and keys.
The earlybirds have placed their mats,
strategic spots across the room.
Some try to hide behind a post
while others claim the front row space.
The yogis shed their daytime skin,
their furrowed brows and heavy bags.
They set aside this time to flow
in oceanic breath; the tide
that laps away at jagged shells.