To Be Healed

To Be Healed


The healer said,

“Send me some hair,

from the nape or not.”


Where I touch there’s

wisps of weather,

fine as silk to slip

into the envelope.


Privacy curled like sleeping cats.

A still life of sugared cream

and custard, comfort

wrapped in white linen,

our gall uneaten.

The midnight promise

of the sweetest snack.


I ate knives, waited

for fine wine, toasts thin as crystal.


Then grapes from blue china,

Red, ripe and mine.


Might she find,

hinges, locks and keys

turned inside, twisted.

What one tries,

even to the end. To seek the door

where it came in, where it can leave.