|
jane
|
the sunlight, pouring golden
through the leaf-hands of the fig tree,
the way light turns
pink through skin. the way
skin turns
pink
through the steam
rising from the water.
this medicine is ancient.
i stick my foot, close
to the crags, the arsenic
cures. before this, it was poison.
i'm ambivalent to the science
behind it all; knowing
it feels good
is simply enough.
challenging the body
in extremes: blistering hot
so i can't move
without feeling flames
in my arteries - running, naked
up the stone steps,
covering my breasts with shame,
feeling my wet hair cling
to the sides of my face, flushed
with remedy. the cold
is shocking at first, like stepping
from a fever into an icebox.
the body slowly appreciates.
somehow everything
just
levels
out.
perspective changes - i'm balmy,
no longer chilled. my bones
creaking
underneath the paper of my skin.
the moment i'm comfortable, i exit
to begin the cycle again. somewhere between
hot and cold is panacea.
and everyone sees this,
and everyone is waiting
for their reconciliation
with water, and fig leaves,
and arsenic, and skin.
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111104
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