I go to the one who can cure me and say, I have a hundred things wrong. Can you combine them to one?
I thought you were dead. I was, but then I caught your fragrance again
and came back to life.
Gently, his hand on my chest. Which tribe are you from? This tribe.
He begins to treat my illness. If I am angry and aggressive, he gives me wine. I quit fighting. I take off my clothes and lie down. I sing in the circle of singers. I roar and break cups, even big jars.
Some people worship golden calves. I am the mangy calf that worships love.
A healing presence has called me from the hole I hid in. My soul, if I am agile or stumbling, confused or in my true being, it is still you.
Sometimes the sleek arrow. Other times, a worn leather thumbguard.
You bring me where everything circles. And now as you put the lid back on the wine vat, pure quiet.