One does not feel any weight on the back in correct Paschimottanasana.
—B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Yoga
I surrender to an avalanche of paper woes,
fold like paper, head aspiring to the toes.
I surrender to the days and nights of solitude,
my ribcage on my thighs—a nude
in charcoal, crude initial, husk, a shell—
I surrender to those who do not wish me well,
to those who would stand on my wide, open back.
My east surrenders to my west: sun is setting,
houses, faces, facts forgotten;
the day dissolves into skin-creases.
Chin against the shin—long razor-bone;
breasts on kneecap—rainclouds, stones.
Surrender to the time the body measures
and the time that measured breath refers to
far beyond the body. My north
and my south have never known
each others worth; I fold the map
to find the moment’s true location.