Distal Points

— Diane Moomey

Beside her door, yin and yang
circle each other in black and white enamel,
a brushed Chinese character — perhaps for long life —
her name below, brass bell above:

I ring.

Door opens — a drift of sandalwood smoke
mingles with the jasmine above my head.
She draws me inside.

“Eyes,” I begin, “my eyes . . .”
“Yes,” she murmurs, “yes. Now show me your tongue.”

I show.
She takes my wrist in two fingers,
closes her eyes, listens to what I cannot hear.
“Mmmm . . . the liver is wild . . . please lie down
and take off your socks.”

I lie.
Her needles slide into ankle skin, the webs
between my toes. Belly gurgles,
cheeks tremble,

I think
of my sister! I’ll ask her a question,
my brother will answer.
Turning right, I’ll find I’ve gone left.
I’ll plant seeds:
somewhere in Andromeda,
a star will change course.

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