Yoga at West Correctional

by Paige Gilchrist

The women want to hear about okra,

yellow squash, anything not 

from an aluminum can. The floor 

is hard vinyl. The aura, green industrial 

wash. I invite them to breathe,

stretch wide, but they lean against 

cinderblock and talk about berries,    

the big bowl mounded with blackberries 

they had once, last year. Under the hum   

of fluorescent light they still remember 

sweet, ripe. 

Piped-in announcements blare on and off—   

med call, yard closing—as we move 

and make shapes. Ice-cold air blows loud 

when we rest quiet at the end. 

As they’re led back to their dorms,     

a hint of fall. They show me the rabbit   

they’ve been watching build a nest 

for her last litter of the season.   

Friday nights, they say, they hear music. 

If they stand still and the wind is right       

they can hear the high school marching band 

up the hill. Hear the whole field thunder under 

brass and drumbeat, under their own feet. 

Hear the top notes strain out on the breeze.     

The Black Mountains ring the little valley 

where we stand. Razor wire meets a deepening 

sky. They can’t decide whether it blushes 

more plum or nectarine.