Yoga, a poem

Pigeon poses problems.

The particular angle of calf to thigh

The troubles secreted

Inside knotty tendon

Ache of gnarled hamstring.

Stored sadness.

Bend, curl, fold.

Abrade the unnamable.

I return to pigeon like a child worrying a scab,

Exposing fresh wound.

Until I am a pigeon, roosting

Mottled, sturdy, and grey.

I become a landed bird

Perennially homing, homing.

– Joan Gelfand, “Yoga”