Dragon Back

After my limbs retreat into their sockets

again, my spine slips its discs

back into pain’s fist until all I can do is double,

cry, or call for help to move. Residue lines up

under compression. To distract myself I watch

travel shows—countries I’ve already explored,

learning more about the contexts of my Côte d’Azur

memories. Feels like hitting refresh, like keeping good

thoughts crisp despite the reek of bad thoughts

crowding in. YouTube suggests Qigong—

I click a video I saved for later, thinking ahead

about pushing through. I convince my feet

they do belong on the ground, tell my knees

I do remember how to breathe, bend,

my hopes up

as I undulate gently, intending to

soften, not show off

how snakelike a loose spine can be. No fire-spitting,

more like upright slither, pelvis to cervical

juncture at the base of the skull, degenerative ease

I liken to dance—me & my pain,

awkward partners in forced proximity. I listen

finally to what she tells me—to rest

all seven ways—social, physical, emotional,

mental, sensory, spiritual, creative—and remember

my disappearing mother’s quick-sung Gotta get some rest

gotta get some rest hey!—to fall in love with healing,

guard as gold, a treasure, what holds

all the shattering parts of me in place.