meridians

The Chinese doctor
listens close
to the winds in my pulse
once strong licking flames of yang

(you should take to the sea,
she told me then,
more water, more yin,
to balance the fire.)

The pulses flutter now
beaten, weakened and tired.

“We will work on the lung meridian”
she tells me
“That’s where grief settles in.”

She knows this from listening
but I’ve told her no stories

I am quiet. Becalmed
on salty water.

She goes to work

Tracing my horizons. Mapping my meridians
calling the fire back.


Home again I'm met
by a thought
stamped and set to sail
across meridians
arriving
like a cat’s paw skittering across the surface of the sea

and I lift my head
like a sailor hungry for a breeze

This tender lick of flame
(really just a postcard)
reminds me
that never did my friend take his leave
(he whose leaving this last time
has taken my breath from me)
without leaving a gift behind.

And so he has.
(Dear friend.)