When Healers Don't

trial balloon first
do no harm healers
keep them alive
isolate minimize
evidential scars
prolong pain
the bottoms of the feet
healing chopped out
of sequence force
feed psychological destruction
thalidomide lead
amputate the wrong limb
Egyptians believed the heart
was the center of thought
the brain cools the body
the nurse at 3 a.m.
lays a cool hand on fevered brow
while laying a pillow over the face
of the patient in the next bed



Lock and Key

One hand paperweight, the other magician
rafting a river of ink carving Palmer
trajectory on pristine landscape.

This high up, water runs
clear, you can almost touch
the stones. Fingers skim

the surface. Middle digit
calloused from years of
service. Let current

masquerade tributary baptism,
voice activated order etched
on ether. No hierarchy in alphabet,

dictation thinks out loud.
Ignore background noise.
Paperweight apprenticed to magician,

an uneasy sisterhood at first.
Thought outsourced, hesitate
at the keys typing words like "waterboard."

Training prevails, feet carry from job
to job, pedal forward and pause,
but not reflect; consider the vehicle.

Catching oneself in sleep
drumming letters on the coverlet
like Annie and Helen at the pump.



Channel Black

Inlet into from
the way a river does,
the mouth of a black dog
lapping
at the bowl of the bay.

The same kid
always wins at monopoly,
shows up in the right
wrong places,
another makeshift town

tucked in his pocket.
Fog, that thief,
unravels landscape,
changes the rules,
watches the bank,

chasing an orange dog,
a crown,
a boat with a single oar,
a bigger boat,
the rising tide.



Had I Known

the plug would have been pulled
its eyes gouged out
lips stitched together
fingerprints peeled
limbs wire-tied
cocooned in duct tape
feet encased in concrete
cozied up to Jimmy Hoffa
inside a box screwed shut
then tipped off the pier
ejected from a space shuttle
aimed for the blackest hole
in the most distant galaxy
or throttled in its crib



Vigilance

no history
only now
only now is different,
a big dog on a short leash
crate in the corner of the kitchen
door left open
for now
for now round
as the clock's face
moments marked
hours announced
a way
a way that seems
forward but goes over
the same ground
tick      tick      tick



Bumping Into Things

I bump into things, carry
a rainbow of bruises on hips
and shins where I collided
with tables, doorknobs, and
kitchen counters. Things above
eye level leave creases on my forehead.
I've got stubbed toes from things
that should have stayed underfoot.
I even bump into sleep, jerk and recoil
as mind and body come to a stop.
Things move. Night is another part of day.
Fingers can be burned from an extinguished fire,
toxins arrive in the mail, scorpions lurk in dark drawers,
door hinges move to the other side.
Things change and sometimes you don't notice.
Trajectory not figured into the shift,
life gets rearranged. It's like growing old,
in a way, smarter you hope, body giving up
but the mind still sharp. You compensate,
cuss, square corners to tighten the arc.
Bruises fade to yellow before they disappear,
a last wave of caution, remember this.
Being graceful holds few illusions.

Ekleksographia:
Wave Three

May, 2010

Poetry

Valerie Lawson

Valerie Lawson's work has been published in Main Street Rag, BigCityLit, Sensations Magazine, and others; in anthologies, and on websites. Her first book, Dog Watch, from Ragged Sky Press, was released in 2007. She has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and won awards for Best Narrative Poem and Spoken Word at the Cambridge Poetry Awards. In 2008 she was invited to the first Women of the World Poetry Slam in Detroit as a Legacy Poet. She co-edits Off the Coast magazine with my partner, Michael Brown.