Corpse Pose

Rich Larson’s beautiful, modernist shavasana made us appreciate every breath. ~ Julian and Fran, April 19, 2026

For April, The Sunday Morning Transport features stories by D. Xiaolin Spires, Margaret Dunlap, Rich Larson, and Brenda Cooper. We are grateful for your support in helping us get here, and in continuing to bring more extraordinary writers and their work to the page.

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Corpse Pose

by Rich Larson

“Since when do you like yoga?” I demand as we climb the studio stairwell. “Is this a midlife crisis thing?”

“I can have crises whenever I like,” Stefan says. “When I die, someone will do the math and figure out which was the midlife one.”

We shed our boots at the door and carry them into the cool incense-smelling studio, joining the gaggle of masochists who booked the Rooftop Sunrise Filtermask Flow. Most are regulars: lithe tan psychopaths in sweat-wicking pulse-tracking nano-sculpting fitness gear, raging against the dying of the late-stage capitalist light as its self-immolating avatars. One hairy and bewildered man, woven mat tucked under his arm, probably got evacked straight from his ayahuasca retreat last weekend when Peru’s government collapsed.

Then there’s me and Stefan, two deathly unathletic Pre-Slop archivists who nearly did a really stupid thing together ten years ago and have been occasional roommates/friends/lovers ever since. We scan in and get changed quickly, pretending not to notice our sagging bellies, our sprouting white hair, because part of our shared mythology is that we are Still Plenty Young.

“There’s this thing at the end,” Stefan says as we palmprint our lockers shut, “where you just lie there and don’t have any responsibilities. And it feels really good.”

“Shavasana,” I say, because you can’t live on the West Coast half your life without stumbling into a few soulless corporate yoga studios. “Yeah.”

When we exit the changing cabin, the instructor is waiting to greet us with her zen white six-a.m. smile. She passes out the scented towels and filtration gear, helping one girl redo her ponytail so the mask strap will sit properly, gently prying the mat from the hairy man’s grip because mats are provided.

We all troop down the hall to a repurposed cargo elevator. It shuttles us upward, lurching then smooth. The lean bodies and bug-eyed filtermasks make it feel a little surreal, but most things feel surreal these days. Another short stairwell, then the instructor leads us through a brick-propped metal door and onto the rooftop.

My mask whirs to life, whisking the fog from my goggles and pumping the smoke-thick, blood-warm air into something passably cool and clean. Fire season doesn’t really end anymore, so I’m used to the swallowed skyline, just a few dark shapes jutting through brown smog. I spy a desiccated little coil of feather and bone on the very edge of the roof.

Stefan claims us two closed-cell rubber mats near the front of the class, which is exactly where I don’t want to be, and gives the instructor a thumbs-up she pretends not to see.

“I invite you to begin the practice in the center of your mat, in a seated position,” she says, voice choppy and electronic through her mask. “Place your hands on your knees. Turn your gaze inward and observe your breath.”

My breath doesn’t like being watched, but I do my best. I try to visualize the push and pull of my lungs, turn the filtermask into just another part of my body, my body into just another part of the living, breathing universe. Mostly I try to figure out why Stefan is suddenly into rooftop yoga and why I let him drag me into it.

He left his talkbox open, so halfway through our first downward dog I send him a message: We could be doing this inside. Virtual sunrise. Full climate control.