You loved your daily bout
of pranayama exercises,
your oum filled the house
with its peaceable thundery bass.
Nowadays I do my practice
in a roomful of friendly strangers,
we inhale through the nostril of the sun,
exhale via the nostril of the moon.
Seven years later, in our quiet house,
I sometimes hear
the measured hum of your living breath,
sidestepping the deathbed.
Say my name. Say my name. Say my name.
The Manhattan Review
Fall / Winter 2012-13