17
I am the alter, the worshiper, and the worshiped.
The blood inside me is wine decanted,
fully breathing at last.
The loose tie suddenly tightens around my throat.
The caught air floods as the hand crashes
against my cheek,
an occasional wave reminding me,
“you are here.”
Here I feel my veins echo
the gentle tickle of foreign fingertips
and lips finding me.
You won’t understand,
but my mantra is my own flesh.
You will look at me like a million butterflies
flew from my ears if I tell you
that this chair is the only chair
I’ve sat on comfortably for years.
The only time my bones don’t ache louder
than steel falling inside my skull,
my muscles don’t feel like knotted Christmas lights
in a dusty box on some basement shelf.
The only time stillness breeds silence.
It’s just like how the edges of a stuck lid
must be bruised by the blunt end of a knife
until the pressure builds and then pops.
Before a satisfactory turn releases sweet blackberry.
Before it drips and glistens
from the silver and the sweet
smoky flavor lights up the tongue.
You won’t understand,
but when I’ve been waiting an hour
at the Doctor’s office or the DMV,
my meditation recording will play,
picture yourself in a pitch black room bound
at the wrists in a wooden chair.