Like a maestro about to caress poetry out of his guitar
she brings her hands down to the angst quivering
like a sack of angry snakes on the soft table before her.
Prodigal, this body that was conceived in perfection
has succumbed to the injuries of flesh and has come
to be opened and rescued and forgiven.
She can look into this body and see the reptile
twisted around its gut— she can grip it deftly and
slide it out clear. The cacophony jangling in the brain
she can mold it into sweet harmony with a hum.
She can calm the screaming agony of the heart,
tempt away the wolf devouring the spine, quiet
the wild dogs tearing tendons, the tortured Gorgon
tangled around the heart and lungs.
She presses, kneads, watches, visualizes the enemy,
reassures, understands, pulls, pushes— until all
is opened and rescued and forgiven, and the prodigal
emerges from the bath, cleansed and peaceful:
the music rises from the heart of the instrument; it is
clear and certain and good.