She’s told the posture’s “king of asanas,”
surges brain’s circulation, stimulates
her vital glands. But she envisions mass
lobe explosions—her screaming yoga mates
soaked in her cerebral spinal fluid,
basal ganglia and cerebellum
splattering walls like chunks of mortared squid,
meninges scattered like scraps of vellum
over the room’s padded mats, medulla
oblongata’s cranial nerves dangling
like spaghetti in sauce a la Ulla
Winbladh. Urging emotion’s untangling,
her master suggests posture of dolphin,
but her mind previews a closed, sealed coffin.
Roger Armbrust
November 15, 2007
