All day long, an injured, panting fawn runs for everything
with my body. No is a cellular rejection, a pulsing collapse.
Death is a quick-slow rush.
My animal awareness clarifies: the heart has a self-paced, exhaustible nature:
the ponderous tortoise retreats, the coruscating firefly strikes an immolating flame. Breathe, my friend, and let your exhales be slow.
A compote of marrow for nourishment, nettles for vitality.
A pressing touch to the body’s tidal meridians. A poultice of tea.
A hand, a glance, again, this work of softening.
How do I summon the charge that surges the river of caribou, the movement
of our tribe? It is the matter of bones, the water of our flow. It is intention
like flint. In each utterance a compact written on wood.
Make of this body a singing bowl.
Make of this body a singing
bowl.
