Yoga

She goes to sleep late.

She sits alone,
Listening to ambient-drone
In her midnight-blue room.
The desk lamp is a small star
In the corner of her dark universe.
She searches Wikipedia
For shades of blue.

She falls in love with
Celeste, cornflower, cyan,
Electric, Indigo, Iris, Maya,
Powder, Sky, Tiffany and Turquoise.

Awe-stricken by their
Surreal quality
And the vacuum it creates
In her solar plexus.

She unfolds like a flower.
She imagines herself opening up,
A bouquet of dreams:
Fragile, alive,
Also like a fluffy, white lamb
Beneath a beautifully crafted
And bejewelled sacrificial dagger.

In her mind she pinches
The petals of a thousand sherbet-coloured blooms,
Their biology presses back.
They do not bruise.

“What kind of
Magical-yoga
Do they practice?”

She wakes up late.