Deceleration

At first you ignore the small 
black flecks skittering across 

your field of vision like flies 
tipped in gold, until you learn

they're made by the jelly-
like substance inside the eye

as it shrinks and loosens 
from the retina. Then there are 

the cracking and popping sounds 
your body makes: fingers, knees, 

shoulders. It's something the doctor 
calls crepitus, a word that sounds 

like what it means: broken down,
dilapidated. You read somewhere

that the trick is to lean into these
changes so you're not smacked

unaware by them; so the hand, lifting 
a cup or sliding a button into its hole,

isn't betrayed by intention tremor.
In yoga class, the teacher raises her arms, 

instructs you to be a tree. Root one foot 
and place the sole of the other inside 

your thigh or against your calf, trying to learn
what you didn't even know the body could do.

Push a pair of weights up toward the ceiling 
from where you lie, balancing your shoulders 

against a large ball made of soft elastic
as you make a bridge with your hips.