Bio Note: I’ve lived in Tucson since 1953. In 2008, after thirty years, I retired from teaching composition and poetry writing at Pima Community College. I’m a passionate supporter of Sky Island Alliance, a regionally-based environmental organization.
The yoga must be working. I haven’t wanted to punch anyone in the mouth for weeks. Still, during Savasana, my monkey mind leaps around, regretting this & that, regretting high school, wishing I’d kicked her ass out of bed when my steady confessed she’d fucked the school bad boy. Ohm . . . . Ohm . . . . Ohm . . . . I’ve copied this passage from Swami Swatamarama’s Hatha Yoga Pradipika & taped it to the bathroom mirror: “When the Rudra granthi is pierced, Prana enters the seat of the Lord (the space between the eyebrows), spontaneously producing Ecstasy, vanquishing old age, disease, hunger, and sleep. The Yogi becomes wise like a god.” Ecstacy? Wisdom? I wouldn’t know. I do know this: there’s no such thing as balance, only balancing.
I’m driving to Sonoita for the races, listening to Don Giovanni on Bluetooth, singing along with Leporello & Donna Elvira. My Latino friend calls opera music for rich Gabachos. My trans-friend calls it binary essentialism. Even my lesbian friend hates opera, calling it unwoke, hetero-melodrama. They’d sneer at me now—white, cishet & privileged— shivering as the soprano hits an impossible note & the palo verdes along the freeway explode like geysers yellow as butterfat.
My wife models the Johnny Was face mask she ordered from Amazon, the material, a profusion of extravagant blossoms, enhancing her green-gold irises & the cute little crease between her eyes. I’m studying my navel, the skin just above it, hirsute & blotched, how it pulses to the beat of my heart. I never understood Newton’s First Law of Motion, but the Fourth Law of Motion, which I just invented, promises the heart will always persist in its state of uniform motion. Let us pray.
©2020 Jefferson Carter
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