Archive For November 24, 2019
I am lying on Tanner’s table, needles in my abdomen and lower legs,heat, and this poem, percolating up like a Yellowstone mud pot. Tanner’s hands,not ethereal airy hands, not hands of fire and electricity, not hands of waterbut hands of clay are cradling my cranium, upcurled fingers easing my skulloff its axis where it has…