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He calls acupuncture
poking, as in
"I'll pick you up after
your poking."
The doctor is a small blond
woman with warm wrinkles
like feathers
along the sides of her face.
She's surprised that it's my
first time,...
I'm so calm.
The first poke startles me
as the thin needle
punches in like my skin
is the wrong side of velvet.
I lie on my stomach
imagining needles
rising from my back like
porcupine quills,
feeling my blood
rushing faster
friction warming my veins
like fault lines
rumbling, ready to
unearth a new era.
There is no pop when they
come out
only the barest tingle.
When I lie on my back
I keep raising my hand
marvelling at the slender
metal balancing on my
wrist.
This side doesn't take so long;
he must be out there
waiting to take me
for my next poking.
Leaving the office I float
6 inches up.
The scuttle of a leaf
along concrete draws
my attention
yet I no longer hear
the city.
I'm glad he's driving.
Later, when he touches me,
my lines go liquid
my body melting up
along his as I flow
into his mouth.
I tingle, simmer then
boil for hours under
him, my earthquake
not registering on
any scale
my songlines
drawing music from him
shaking him as he
clings to me like Earth
hoping and fearing
to be swallowed
by the tremors.
Heather Shaw
7/29/99
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