August 17, 2017

Ode to Hot Yoga. {Poem}

I’m honestly not sure what I did before—
Before I could push open that big, wooden door.

Walking into that room, a sensory feat.
Lacking in light, and bursting with heat.

Rolling out my mat, lying on the floor.
My shavasana is weak, my S.I. joint is sore.

Trying to relax, be mindful but absent…?
Breaking down each thought into the tiniest fragment.

And then pushing them away. So easy to do.
When you live in a house that’s much like a zoo.

Actually, a zoo is cleaner and the tenants less energetic.
So, let’s do this asana flow and get cathartically kinetic.

Roll onto your right side and take child’s pose.
Downward dog, high plank, knee to your nose.

Two minutes in and my tank top is saturated.
Ten minutes in and my neighbour has audibly flatulated.

I get that though. Lots of abdominal compression.
But farting isn’t as bad as chronic depression.

So, float forward girl! Chaturanga! And upward face your dog!
Aren’t you happy I’m writing poetry instead of a blog?

The sweat on my arms is beading and rolling.
My knees slide off my elbows when I try silently crowing.

Dude next to me, chill. I see that you’re jacked.
But your panting and grunting are wont to distract.

I came here to breathe, dammit. In through my nose.
I came here to fold forward and touch my darn toes.

I came for the sound of bare feet on bamboo floors.
I came to expel toxins from all of my pores.

High plank and lower for a count of five.
(Getting closer)
(Almost over)
(I’ll be fine)
(Cold glass of wine)

Sink into the mat and right ear to the ground.
Hear hearts through the floor as they slow and they pound.

It’s hot. I can’t breathe, but I know I should stay.
Final Shavasana? Screw it. I’m out. Namaste.




Author: Heather Romito
Image: Flickr/Kullez
Editor: Travis May
Copy Editor: Danielle Beutell
Social Editor: Sara Karpanen

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Heather Romito