Hot Yoga Chaff
Within the heat that some call infernal,
the wishful teachings make me grind my teeth:
“You’ll burn a thousand calories, sweat out toxins”—
I strive to press the blather away
the way a chef distills what’s worth preserving
from what was both the source and in the way
of succulence and essence. Trivia, tocsins—
I press it all to and through the floor, seeking beneath
my soles and palms true knowing: that kernel
of self that weighs not who’s deserving.
by Peg Duthie
Editor’s Note: Clever rhymes, meter, and a startlingly apt homophone elevate this poem from floor to enlightenment.
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