Hot Yoga

 This is my body

A rising pretzel

And in this position

It is not so different from salted dough

Hot in the oven

The recipe needs heat

So this bake will rise

Give it too much

It will burn and collapse

Spewing its guts over the oven rack

Which you will then spend days cleaning

Half-Crow

Hearing you knock sends me squatting

On the floor and rocking

So I can’t remember sitting still

So I can’t remember what my blood,

Sounds like when it’s the only thing in my ear

Bloody Jay on the porch

Stop mimicking the magpie

Because you will never look like him

at best you will be a half-crow

And at the moment

Your voice is plastic cheese

Ruining my expensive grater

And I’ll tell you this

My stomach cannot cope

With one more fraudulent dinner