yoga is bogus
to DesCartes
father of the modern art
of keeping
body and soul apart
ask directions
from
Gracie
at Simmons Store
a racy
eighty year old maid
a high heels lipstick
and cigarette
coquette
on her rocker
with a cheap romance
book
gives the yoga teacher
a withering glance
a distracted look
“all the way up
and all the way down
steep snake hill
then left right left
you’ll spy
the Congregrational steeple
kept lighted at night
high over the fields
St. Catherine’s is right by”
Father Maroney greets me
with a twisted smile
from a heart attack
only a short while back
I do hahayana meditation
in his basement
with my class
the All Saints’ Day mass
upstairs
and I hear
the words of consecration
for the first time
in twenty years
The road to St. Catherine’s
is a quaint old
labyrinth
within it
both Buddha and DesCartes
get trapped
by the Sacred Heart
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