The sixth sense bump, catapults
a sick kid laid out on a gurney wrapped
in a stiff hospital gown — green —

Hurled, hit through the close halls
to bleached sanitary spaces where evil
Lurks — ether washrag drips on the face

As the tongue numbers a few good sheep
to fairy reaches beyond narrow corridors
of breath, lines of color dances

Thinly, slow down, speed up outside
the confines of sense. Wings of the
White Lady beat down, strain tones of

Rapture from the young soul’s sleep.

In the tip of his finger, the tech
held the Isthmus of the butterfly
in my thyroid where the cyst
landed, buried— black flesh.

Adding cold cream to his instrument,
rolling it over the front of my naked
neck— he spread white substance
below my Adam’s apple, drawing it

All long the edge of my windpipe.
Twisting my head around, taking
quick bold strokes, leaving me
— dizzy, cold, unprepared to feel.

While he sought weakness in my
cyst, I closed my eyes, imagining
blindness as the place to weave
cocoons hiding my growing cells.

In my paper gown, I felt apparitions
falling like tears. Turning off swirls,
the tech seized upon an image of
the thyroid’s lobes around the

Isthmus where the cyst found rest.
laying on the long table, feeling
something in it contracted, until
I let it go, sensing the tech’s

Cool hand reach out, accepting
his motion whole and plain.
What persisted beyond that
ghostly screen? Who saw

The song my body sang? Why,
pinned down like a moth
on a cardboard tray,
deconstructed the

Isthmus between my thyroid’s
wings, will stanzas arise praising
Mother Earth? Who holds up
my butterfly to soar— silent

Reminder— sky in clouds,
passing tender in the wind?
Who floats me round without
my Isthmus?

Who will carry my lobes?
Oh butterfly!
Don’t let me down.

Love can’t cease.

Hand-stitched quilts dance
from taut plastic lines
strung by determined
denim-skirted matrons.

We defend a card table laden
with diminutive t-shirts, packets
of notes bearing scribbly insignia
of children’s art.

The pot-bellied auctioneer barks,
Your kids for one day.
We’ll take them away.
Ten. Do I hear twelve dollars?

My eight-year-old whines for pink tickets
I jam quarters into her sticky outstretched
palm, as my legs push the baby away from
kittens-for-sale in a cardboard box by my feet.

A child enters the compound alone. Her eyes
give full attention; her bow lips are pursed. Perhaps
she is nine; her shiny bald head incredibly smooth
reflects the noonday sun. Balancing herself on crutches,

She swings one thin leg back and forth in marching rhythm.
Her red and white striped shorts, top wave freely—
keeping time. Closing my eyes, seeing hollow stares of
Auschwitz survivors, survivors flash before me.

A bruise that didn’t heal
Diagnosed on Thursday
Amputated on Monday
Robust build
Thick raven hair.

Abandoning my station, weaving through cupcake faces,
I see children clutching baggies full of cool water and
desperate goldfish. There she stands in balance,
transfixed by the electric music of the peach fuzz boys.

My four-year-old tugs at my sleeve, wanting me to help
her solve the riddles of Treasure Island. I send her off
to join the band of small fingers lavishing layers of
psychedelic icing on round bland cookies. Now I search

The eager faces tilting skyward to receive new identities
such as cats, Indians, and clowns. I cannot find her.
The pavement burns my feet. I seek the cool
linoleum of the indoor puppet show.

There on the piano bench, crutches at ease, silently smiling,
she reaches into the pocket lady’s skirt for a Chinese
finger trap. On her left cheekbone
is a perfect painted rainbow.

Whirling cores of fiber, the chakras,
each a lotus unfolding us, like petals.
We fall, escape inward to life.
Our postures beg the Serpent.

Hear our Prayer, wake, wind our way
up the seven disks of our spines,
Pull your vital thread up through base,
genitals, belly, heart, throat, eyes, crown.

Lie at an acute angle on a slab of wood,
extend left arm up, clutch right thigh.

In the ground, red root— center, plant a bare bulb
wrong side up— yanked out screaming.

Sever forefinger, thumb—a child calls the frantic
Mother, Where are the stubs? I’ll find them soon.

Doctors might mend. Lost. Somewhere in a doll
House along with buried Navajo jewelry— names

Of goldfish where the cat hunkered down, stalked,
with gold eyes surveyed hollow rooms, responded

To cues for danger. Alive— still thanks to wariness,
trust— she is the only one remembering.

Lie flat, face upright, arm loose to your side, place left arm on
your forehead. Touch neither elbow nor hand on the floor.
Place no pressure on eyes. They must remain closed.

Always in turbulence— through a strong wind, strands of
white cloth would blow ragged from her shoulders, as
she fled from the bald fat Buddha pounding his drum.

Out of breath, overcome, she circles clockwise, lies down,
a vortex of will. Shifting— takes in the shapes:
orange waterbuck, zebra, antelope, back to start.

She mounts the beast, a face contorted in ecstasy,
slits his throat end to end. Ample blood and flesh to nourish,
skin to warm her, she alone with no thought of opening—

Having uttered no sound, living like that for years,
killing no other creature.

The old bear hug— embrace from the rear, back labor
each time. Remember posture Is everything. Stand erect,
press hands on belly, fingers flank your navel.

Feet apart, head loose— fall back between the strains of
lost song. In circular sway, a white bird flaps its wings
down towards earth— dizzy— endless in its pace.

Swirling, it will not land although the sky is that icy orange
shade of clouds in the late afternoon of a California winter.
At last, the bird lands upon a lone branch of eucalyptus.

The trunk peels bark in withered shards.You lean against
the tree, your back covers the round hole, then slump—
knees up, palms resting on your gut, extends your

fingertips skywards spinning thoughts—
fiber for garments of praise.

Cover the navel, the belly with your left hand, palm down.
Shield the navel and the heart with the other. It’s no use.

Pierced right through, your vast heart expands green,
gold for miles. Behind it hides another this one small,
bean-shaped, very liquid—

The color of rain in a forest guarding the path between
hearts is neither man nor woman— rather a black embryo.

Spirit falls out— more creatures tumbling
onto the floor, dancing like costumed dolls of many nations.

Promise to protect them if they leave the passage open,
disappearing into endless mossy regions—
never glancing back.

Standing, head back, neck relaxed, jaw dropped,
hands on my hips, fingertips flanking my navel—
I wait. A philosopher shoves a straw rope

Down my throat, methodically. Remarkable it
doesn’t hurt. Later, I find myself pulling out,
yard after yard of pale blue silk ribbon.

Seated, leaning forward on a cushion,
place the right hand on your knee—
left hand below the left knee.

Open your lips, press your tongue
slightly through. Flight happens in
empty space behind the eyes.

Meteors, thoughts, planets, stars
make midnight connections—
indigo— the color of away.

Stand with your knees bent, never lock them.
Cup your hands skywards, press them against
your waist. Your breasts are full— milk flows

Down, tiny blue rivulets fill your waiting palms.
A bird perches on your crown, his red feathers
combed in splendor, wings of many colors.

Strong talons grasp, then pull you up. Your hands
release milk, yet steady against balance, your arms
arc back and forth— lifting you.

I am one who unites the divergent
parts of myself through music.

I am one who overcomes my alienation
from my fragmented self through song.

May 24th, 2017

I decorate the clouds—whose long
tail feathers brush the blossoms,
deliver beauty from earth to sky.

I glide with a stem in my mouth.
My song ascends to heaven—
in praise of the world.