She sweeps around the mat.

I contort my body.

Should I move?

No, no te preocupes m’ija, estás bien.

I thought this poem was about privilege.

Then I showed it to a friend.

Get over yourself,  she said.

You deliver mail for a living.

The teacher on my yoga app says 

Come into chair pose. 

Call in something that you need.

I call in what I always call in: money. 

I don’t want to go back to the high vis vest,

tiny mail slots snapping frozen fingers,

supervisors in the depot saying

Let me see the treads on your shoes. 

Be open to abundance, the teacher coos.  

Complaining about capitalism feels so on trend.

We make jokes about our stolen lives,

waiting for the jobs we hate to be done by AI.

The problem is none of it is very funny.

One day while folding sheets into hard creases

Maria told me she used to sell tamales in the street. 

This work is a little better than that, she concedes.

At least she doesn’t have to get up at 4 in the morning.

You are the co-creator of your life.   

Here, surrounded by flowers and fruit

I move back into downward dog and

congratulate myself on this chapter. 

What I sacrifice for the freedom to travel:

pension, health plan, a living wage.

I’m considered casual.

Maria is called informal. 

We both know what we really are: disposable.

I roll up the mat.

Maria sweeps where I was,

leaving the ground immaculate.

Trust that whatever you need is coming to you.

The Organic Cotton Shop in Tepoztlan

A handsome man enters & declares

he needs TOW-ELS, wraps his

arms around himself,

drawing out the vowels.

His rocket pop blue eyes

land on mine: What’s your name? 

smiles like he’s just given me a gift.

Couldn’t wait to tell me his: Lucky.

Your parents called you that?

Me, taking the bait.

Well, Lucky is my last name, he says.

Still cool, I say.

Actually, it’s Lecky, he insists on telling me. 

First name is Steve.

Leaning against the towels now, he 

resumes the train wreck of disclosure, 

tells me he’s from Edmonton.

Lucky’s building a cabin on the mountain.

He does peyote, lives off of crypto.

His visa’s about to run out.  

He’s not worried though.

He’s got a guy. 

He flashes his expensive smile 

at the woman working, 

says he’ll take four blankets 

and four pillows with the towels.

I mean, it’s so cheap, right? 

I’m still debating a 10-dollar vest.

Listen, he says, 

I’m not a new-age type of guy.

I’ve spent time in the jungle of India. 

Did you ever wonder why 

some of the poorest people are the happiest? 

I tell Lucky I need to get going. 

I hope he doesn’t ask to connect online,

but I guess he won’t. 

That would ruin the illusion. 

He’s already on shaky ground. 

Steve Lecky from Edmonton. 

I leave without buying the vest, 

exchange a glance with the woman

behind the shop desk—we both know

I’m not the type of tourist Mexico wants.

I don’t buy organic cotton towels and 

I would never pay someone to renew

my visa. I would get on a bus and go

to Guatemala to do it— like any other

broke person with their given name would.