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IN THE SENIOR YOGA CLASS
We sit on chairs or stand on wobbly legs,
holding on for support,
and do the poses as best we can
while we moan and groan and wonder
how much torture we can take
until we hear, “How was it?”
and we say, “Good.”
Only the woman across from me,
her soft gaze and sweet smile unchanging,
stays silent and cannot follow instructions.
“Hands up high,” the teacher says.
She puts her hands atop her head.
“Forward stretch,” he says. She hugs herself.
“Bend.” Her arms reach out toward mine;
we shake on it.
At each misstep, the man beside her,
the husband I assume,
gently pulls her back
and guides her through the motions,
his loving touch not to be mistaken
for mere kindness.
When they leave,
she remembers to take his hand.