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
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,