My acupuncturist asks how my grieving is going.
“Okay?” I say,
as a sea turtle moves slowly across the room’s TV screens.
I’m not sure what I’m more puzzled by, her question or mine,
& then I say “I’m not sure if I actually am?”
“That’s okay, Alison,” she says,
“We’ve used the pillow before, right?”
I nod. She puts a pillow under my right arm.
When she needles my wrist it shoots a
through my palm,
a real jolt of electricity
& I want to jump out of the recliner
But instead I look at her, big eyed,
& say, “Whoa.”
I wondered if that would happen, she says,
having already moved on to another point
but pauses to check if I’m okay first.
That one can be intense, she tells me,
then pauses again — would you like to know more or not?
I nod again.
Tell me everything, I think.
There is a lightning bolt in my wrist, I think,
as she tells me that point connects to the lungs
& that the intense feeling could signify
my stagnant energy
“Your grief, your sadness,
The sea turtle swims, slowly, behind & above her
& she continues her work
& quietly electrocutes me, again,
just above my ankle.
I say nothing — I don’t even flinch!
& still: “You okay?”
I always like the needle in my third eye space
& the way she wrinkles my brow for me,
purposefully, to put it in each time.
I usually forget it’s even there
& sometimes cross my eyes after she goes away,
To spot it,
just to prove to myself it’s still there.
When she takes it out, this time,
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