(Re:)Incarnate

It’s been a month now since Exhaustion took hold. It has indecent staying power, Like down to tar. We are tar And feathered chickens, Headless, fearful and Senseless. A soft breeze Slaps bare skin like nettles. The cat’s nine-tailed wind Lashes our bodies, Pouring brine On mental wounds.

Once we saw The barbs In the hooks, it was too late. Pesky little critters, Coated in tar. Barbed hooks are Harder to extricate. Surgery is destructive, But need: Our hands on the scalpel. No anesthetic for this Chemicalectomy.

We left our gratitude In the reliquary. Should it return to Its cosmic energy flow? Or was the pedestal Our scourge, full of Vindictive emptiness The whole time? We ignored the Infinite void in the finite Spaces of our bodies. Addiction — our Julia Set of intoxication, Fractals fracturing interminable.

It’s so hard to believe This is convalescence. Brains and bodies Cry out lies, cacophonous, Crashing against our Fauxpamine ween, Thundering, dangerous, desperate. It’ll be okay, I say. We didn’t know. I’m sorry I patted your shoulder. I know it ground Those nettles deeper. Yet, our choice was The miracle that day — Straying from our disease.

We wished we could Shed our skin, Minds yearning for A schism From the body-temple — Just until the nettles wilt And wither away. We were withering, Helpless and hooked. But we were pioneers, Blazing our own trail Toward gratitude’s rebirth.

The doctors and lawyers Kept practicing. We practiced at healing, too. The athletes and musicians Kept playing. We played our music, too. We had to run — we had To re-learn a truth profound — With love, life abounds.

And run, we did, Becoming “estrangeiros” In a foreign land. No English here, but We heard songs — Incomprehensible, auditory honey. They don’t play music here — they touch music — Because it already exists. By feat of persuasion Or practiced massage, Musicians coax out Chords, melodies, and rhythms. Finding sonic harmony Is tactile first — Then it’s a playful romp. Ears, hearts and dancing bodies Fall in love with these songs Made of touch. We did too, Ignoring our linguistic ignorance, Indulging our musical inference.

Trading context for tone Felt like joy, Or maybe pleasure. We abandoned pleasure-seeking, But we listened anyway, Enthralled, included Among new friends. We spoke not a single, Mutual word, so We got by With pantomime and charades. It felt wonderful To be understood despite our Lack of local vernacular.

Rapt with intent and attention, We fashioned A hammock cocoon for two Right on the beach, Beneath the stars, Our souls soaking in Song and starlight. Tears and tirades Finally behind us, We became each other’s Instruments as We touched music to Each other’s ashen skin, Electric fingertips picking To the rhythm Of our heartbeats.

Nettle-winds abated, Exhausting tar-stick melted away, We smolder again, Kindled by love And time’s alchemical transmutation. We are content For the first time in a month That there are tactile, tangible, Beautiful things. Like us, for instance. Sleep comes easy For the Phoenix, Nestled in its Hammock cocoon, Stoked by new melodies, the Lullaby embers of rebirth.