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Pranayama


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.


Penelope Shuttle

The Manhattan Review

Fall / Winter 2012-13


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