Slacking

Not slacking in real life--that has been a to-do list that never ends. I had to start typing my to-do lists at work because they were getting too messy.

But in terms of reading, not a lot of memoir recently. But I do have this, even though I have this feeling the form will change:

Your body is a rope I cannot undo.

Even in sleep, a battle: the cords of your neck,

hands in fists. I wait until your breath deepens

before I place the next needle, waiting to see

what your body will give up today. You tell me of dreams

where white teeth surround you, so I try

to let you rest for longer, knowing you rise

throughout the night, shaken from sleep

by anything.

Your pulse is weak.

Your body is trying to escape you.

Every week, the meridian of your body twisted

in some new way. I drain the heat from you again

and again. But still you wake at 3 am to eat bread

and keep down the anger. I needle the four gates,

hoping this time the channels will open.

I want you weightless and spinning,

floating over dunes, sand shaped like hips that never end.

I have tried more heat, sliding the fire cups over your shoulder

Gua sha: hot spoons scraping the skin of your neck. Wishing

I could excise out the knots like a surgeon, wishing for balance.

Let this go,

erase the ghost that stands on the periphery,

counting your mistakes.