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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 4, December 2015

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Matthew Caretti
Flushing, New York, USA


Improvisation on Healing

An X marks my flesh, the surgeon’s initials a certification of that spot. The conscious “I” begins to fade. The IV drips in.

old lullaby
in a far corner
of my mind
recollection of
some former self

Waking from oblivion into a world of white. Feet patter somewhere close. Angelic voices whisper.

wind-shadows
behind the curtain
an obscure show
beeps in ones and twos
symphony of the living

Disobeying doctor’s orders, I return home. Hobble upstairs. The second floor studio a refuge. A place to piece together what has been taken apart.

taped to the fridge
pictures of my self
inside out
old scars revealed
by the light of day

First Vicodin. An engagement with the absurd. I expect sleep, but cannot find my way to it. My mind some thick stew of memory and fantasy.

pondering deep
folds in the blanket
now distant peaks
I move through the void
of some long ago journey

The next morning. I cannot help but rise early. Can ritual and routine restore? I mimic a bow. Light incense.

armchair zazen
these scars too will fade
form to emptiness
the final release of
some healing unction

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