My time is running short this morning--but that's O.K., because I had a relaxing week-end, plus I'm caught up on my grading for my online classes.
Over the week-end, I got my contributor's copy of The Atlanta Review, so let me post a poem for your Monday reading pleasure.
Jesus goes to yoga class.
Gabriel tells him that he needs a practice
to reduce his stress, and Michael sings
the praises of flexibility.
Jesus watches a class first,
humans stretching themselves into unnatural
shapes. He senses their pain
and wonders if there’s a more efficient
way to dispatch that discomfort.
He could heal them with a single
word if they had faith.
He unrolls his yoga mat
to join them as they arch
into dog shapes and fish curves.
He’s been crucified on a cross.
He thought he understood the limits
of human pain. But on this hard, wood
floor, he senses yet another threshold.
After several weeks, he admits
to feeling better. That persistent flare
of pain in his lower spine
has faded. The kink of muscles
in his right bicep has ungnarled.
His classmates, too, notice
improvement. They sleep
through the night to rise
with renewed energy. They feel
new hope. The ones
who have touched
the sweat of Jesus report
the easing of every chronic condition.
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