Tag Archives: crying
The Healer and I, a prose poem
The Healer and I
Fay, the healer and I, the subject, both consult my body in its entirety. Fay directs me to examine the sensations within this body, the instrument of change I have placed upon her table. There is first the feeling of water dripping, ice melting, inside the body. The dripping is insistent, patient, slow. The water is flowing from the head to the feet, and from the feet down into the earth itself.
What is melting the ice? Light, and heat, from a source outside the body. The ice melts, bringing forgotten memories & feelings. A vision of mountaintops, sheathed in ice, but below the ice, green plants wait, alive, waiting to raise their heads, once the ice is gone. Luxuriant jungle foliage, frozen water holding it down. The ice melts, the water is freed — the water nourishes the plants growing on the mountainside. The water…
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Filed under love, maturity, mysterious, poetry, relationships
Why I Hate You, a poem
Why I Hate You
You know why I hate you? You’re a weak vine, needing to be propped up, needing more comfort than a baby. You imagine bugs, crawling up the walls, down your hair. Their wings whir in the night like soft sobs.
I hate you because you’re ugly — a slob, a slut, a sucker. Because you saw your mother passed out on the carpet in front of the television, one too many times, but you didn’t kill her the way she wanted to be killed. You didn’t help when she needed you. Because you let yourself be unimportant for so many years and did nothing to help yourself until it was too late, until you’d already lost the war. Peace came on unfavorable terms, the enemy couldn’t be placated.
I hate you because you’re afraid of the dark. When you’re with a man, you lean on the solidity of his body, the real beat of his heart, you listen to his rhythmic breathing, and you’re not afraid anymore, but you start to get antsy. His body sounds so much stronger than yours. They don’t cry the way you do. Does that mean they don’t feel? Why do they want to be with the likes of you? You don’t have the slightest idea what you want from them. Late at night is the worst. The stars unfold ahead of you, and you can’t find your way to the future, stupid bitch.
That’s when I hate you the most. You’re utterly without honor. You imagine your ex-husband, fat and happy in his bed, eating candy. He doesn’t suffer like you do, he has already forgotten why he married you in the first place. He is perfect. He is way above you in the cosmos, he is light, reason. Your life is insignificant, ignorant and small, and won’t leave a shadow.
Filed under karma, love, poetry, prose poetry
The Healer and I, a prose poem
The Healer and I
Fay, the healer and I, the subject, both consult my body in its entirety. Fay directs me to examine the sensations within this body, the instrument of change I have placed upon her table. There is first the feeling of water dripping, ice melting, inside the body. The dripping is insistent, patient, slow. The water is flowing from the head to the feet, and from the feet down into the earth itself.
What is melting the ice? Light, and heat, from a source outside the body. The ice melts, bringing forgotten memories & feelings. A vision of mountaintops, sheathed in ice, but below the ice, green plants wait, alive, waiting to raise their heads, once the ice is gone. Luxuriant jungle foliage, frozen water holding it down. The ice melts, the water is freed — the water nourishes the plants growing on the mountainside. The water has been held in stasis, unable to feed the growth of the plants, but now it is melting.
The water is itself pure & clear, it does not care about having been frozen, it exists only in this moment, the moment of flow. The water is good, the force melting it is good, the plants are good, the mountain is good — there is no bad thing, only cycles of stasis & flux. We, Fay and I, are in a period of change.
The spine is specifically consulted, the spine feels stirrings it has not felt for some time. “Desolation is a file, and the endurance of darkness is preparation for great light.” (St. John of the Cross.) The frozen water has had its purpose — there can be no journey without rest. Soon, the ice will melt altogether. Yet the spine quivers with some unexamined tension, apart from the melting of the ice.
A sensation of another presence, another entity, squirming under the touch, ticklish, evading….
Filed under health, mysterious, prose poetry, science
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 