Tell me about the light you have lost.
It was the breath of my first baby, the one
never taken. The doctor's words, sharp
as scalpels. Her skin, on my fingertips,
petals of heliotrope. What tools do you need
to recover? Paper, pen; blood instead of ink.
The pollen of memory clings to my sleeves.
As small as the wind's shadow, the fleeting
glimpse of her face.
Sonnet from the Psalms: Psalm 145, verse 1
I will meditate, and also do yoga.
Learn how to breathe through alternate nostrils.
I will make my pilgrimage unto the health spa.
I will cleanse my body; let the world’s ills
seep through my pores: a miasma
of carcinogens, free radicals,
impurities. Wash me clean with kombucha,
rose hips, hibiscus, anything herbal.
I will give up meat, become vegetarian.
Add garlic, onions, broccoli to everything I cook.
Toss in spices: turmeric, herbs from the Mediterranean.
Free-range eggs, wild-caught fish from net or hook.
Lord, remove my sins with steam, exfoliation.
Cleanse my soul, renew me, lead me unto hydration.