She worked the

flanges of my

inner hip, the

hard bone

surrounding soft

flesh, the hara.

She stirred the stew

of my belly bowl,

released the ache

I’d collected during days

of carrying boxes filled with

memories, covered in dust.

I traveled those boxes

like a breeze

blown through

a broken window,

the sharp glass

slicing the flow.

I came to her ancient,

at one with my pain.

She pulled the bowl

of my belly

inside out, and I

glistened once more.