Beckoning

 

IMG_1857

 

Beckoning

 

If you press a scalpel just so —

between the tendon’s grip of bone, or

fascia’s papery webs,

the integrity of a joint

or a cavity 

gives way. 

The form before you is 

released

 

to slide like leaves

swept skyward, 

carried off stem over blade,

tumbled by windy tongues

of an endless maw.

 

Still, the day brightens around you,

a beckoning 

in the trembling, 

inviting you to

 

fall up

into the brilliant throat 

of something new

 

where the light uncontained

brims

like a deeply rooted bowl,

and that which holds all things together

grows

stronger 

with every sinewy leaf

you let 

go.

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