I go reset my body on rainy Thursdays,

on sunny Sundays,

on tiring Wednesdays.

Sometimes I feel reset after going.

Sometimes I feel misaligned still.

Most of the time,

somewhere in between.

I used to like the male instructor.

I preferred his deep voice

chanting around my ears,

like a broad palm

pressing against my forehead—

just as firmly as I’d like it to be.

But while he’s not available,

I decided to give her class a try.

I can’t do new things too often.

But it would be alright,

if only once in a while.

Where his voice anchored me,

hers floated in and stayed.

I began to settle into her presence

before I realized it.

A notebook could always be seen

next to her mat—

like an observer,

but not judging.

With blocks set up

beneath our pelvis and head,

she guides us to close our eyelids.

Through sound,

she invites us to imagine

standing by the kitchen counter,

lifting a lemon—

cold and wet—

cutting it in half,

bringing one half to our nose,

and breathing in.

Her soft voice brushes into my ears,

tantalizing like a feather.

Gently opening my eyes,

looking into the ceiling—

the shadows of the bamboo-woven light

swaying side to side,

like those palm leaves.

I drift in and out of a dreaming state,

and remember:

Here I am,

in the wetness of Southeast Asia,

sinking my body weight

into the mat,

into the blocks.

Let me be your block.

Sink into me,

I say to you—

so soft into your ears,

with your eyes closed,

tantalizing you,

like a feather.