TJ asks how small of a ball can I roll myself into,
could I fit into his pocket?
Earlier in the day we had walked,
looking for the many Ganesha’s on the grounds.
The Ganesha sitting high on the trail,
the one with the purple and yellow flowers
that some of our fellow yogis thought I should pick for my hair,
but sitting there, I couldn’t take anything from him.
The Ganesha under the tree whose leaves you could walk into,
as if leaves were curtains, as if you could walk into a tree,
as if any place could have arms, as if they could hold you.
We looked at the beads and photos, the prayers of others before us.
We walked up to the ledge. We did arm balances. On stone,
then grass. Devarshi and Sudha passed below.
You be Devarshi, I’ll be Sudha,
How men and women can be friends.
Back home our loves of another kind and our lives.
Heading back, TJ points out the butterfly on the ground.
At first we think she’s coming out of her cocoon, the open
and close of her wings,
yet on closer look, not butterfly,
but moth, not cocoon, but shit, and if not for TJ,
I wouldn’t have noticed any of this.
These small shifts,
what we didn’t know was there,
what we thought
was something else.