Traffic was light
and I arrive at the yoga studio
earlier than expected

the island of time
lands on my chest
like a child that wants to play

insistent
joyful
making it hard
for me to breathe

it exists
and erodes
simultaneously

my mind twitches
with the urgency to relax
and savour this rare wedge
of unmarked day

I am aware of the irony
but my synapses continue
to clamor over each other
vying for the right answer

should I daydream
or meditate
write lists
or a letter
to my unborn child

I look up at the clock and slump with the understanding
that I have lost this moment
to the tornado of indecision

that motherhood has made me
a maven of crisis
but my gift for opportunity
has gone flaccid

I file into the yoga class
I am hollow
of anything but breath
waxy cheerless breath
which I climb inside
vacantly
only later realizing
how sweet it was to unmoor from myself for an hour
not with presence
but with abandon
to some absent foggy place.