yogi

Even on mute,

porn blares like air raid sirens

when roommates are home.

And as I look her up and down

up and down

up and down

suddenly I’m fearful my skull

isn’t soundproof, that the new age music

will be drowned out by the suck-smack

of our naked bodies colliding in my head.

I avoid eye contact, her figure burned into my retinas,

ass in the air taking it in down doggy style.

The class chants Ohm

but I only manage to moan ohmygod.

Perfect is such a strong word

but her designer yoga wear is a second skin

hugging in all the right places

a body that only has the right places

and when she bends over into a forward fold

there are no secrets.

Is it Bikram in here or is it just me?

Sweat flooding off my forehead, ujjiya out of control

as I struggle and creak from pose to pose

she flows into effortlessly. We

need to get tangled in each other,

move our asanas from the mat to the sheets.

If only I were Shiva, merely

to have extra hands to run over her flawless form.

I would give my salutations to the sun daily

if only for this view.

I may not be in love with yoga,

but damn do I love yoga class.

Namaste.