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 
WOOOOOSH 
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. 
I nod.
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,
it’s stuck.”

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,
I’m bleeding.