Like a maestro about to caress poetry out of his guitar
\nshe brings her hands down to the angst quivering
\nlike a sack of angry snakes on the soft table before her.
\nProdigal, this body that was conceived in perfection
\nhas succumbed to the injuries of flesh and has come
\nto be opened and rescued and forgiven.<\/p>\n
She can look into this body and see the reptile
\ntwisted around its gut— she can grip it deftly and
\nslide it out clear. The cacophony jangling in the brain
\nshe can mold it into sweet harmony with a hum.
\nShe can calm the screaming agony of the heart,
\ntempt away the wolf devouring the spine, quiet
\nthe wild dogs tearing tendons, the tortured Gorgon
\ntangled around the heart and lungs.<\/p>\n
She presses, kneads, watches, visualizes the enemy,
\nreassures, understands, pulls, pushes— until all
\nis opened and rescued and forgiven, and the prodigal
\nemerges from the bath, cleansed and peaceful:
\nthe music rises from the heart of the instrument; it is
\nclear and certain and good.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
There is a healing that does not involve prescriptions. (#984) Continue reading