All Heal

The body doesn't e[r]ase or quiet  
immediately or of its own accord. 

It is a town with nerve [ending]s 
all lit up through the night, 

windows shaded, doors bolted shut
against wind or animals that howl

at the slightest noise. The body
is an archive of what tightened

the knots along its spine, what
made the jaws clench to [w]ire 

as if in place. Once there was
a bird which feathered the rooms

inside the chest, before it hid then
flew through the bars of the ribs. 

The body takes notes, keeps score. 
In its fortress it pours stones 

instead of water into jars. It knows
it needs to unlearn construction

and defense, to practice compos[t]ing
instead of ruthless accounting. 

The field that flinched from fire
passing through learns that green 

grows again. The shoulders soften
and the bird returns. The lake where

the body floats is still dark, but warmer 
and looser now on the back of the neck.